CD H 3 ^ Go en 2 Oo Z <** Other mysteries in the Lord Peter Wimsey series by Dorothy L. Sayers available in Large Print: Whose Body? Clouds of Witness Unnatural Death The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club The Five Red Herrings Have His Carcase Murder Must Advertise STRONG POISON by Dorothy L. Sayers g.k.hall&co. Boston, Massachusetts 1980 Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Sayers, Dorothy Leigh, 1893-1957. Strong poison. Large print ed. 1. Large type books. [PR6037.A95S8 1980] ISBN 0-8161-3042-6 I. Title. 823'.912 80-20970 Copyright 1930 by Dorothy L. Sayers Fleming Renewed 1958 by Lloyds Bank, Ltd., Executor of the Estate of Dorothy L. Sayers All rights in this book are reserved. No part of the book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Published in Large Print by arrangement with Harper & Row, Publishers, Incorporated Sef in rnmniigranhic 18 Et English Times by "Where gat ye your dinner, Lord Rendal, my son? Where gat ye your dinner, my handsome young man?" "-- O I dined with my sweetheart, Mother, make my bed soon, For I'm sick to the heart and I fain wad lie down." "Oh that was strong poison, Lord Rendal, my son, O that was strong poison, my handsome young man," "-- O yes, I am poisoned, Mother; make my bed soon, For I'm sick to the heart, and I fain wad lie down." Old Ballad "W It CHAPTER I There were crimson roses on the bench; they looked like splashes of blood. The judge was an old man; so old, he seemed to have outlived time and change and death. His parrot-face and parrot ₯oice were dry, like his old, heavily-veined ;tmnds. His scarlet robe clashed harshly |Mth the crimson of the roses. He had sat [for three days in the stuffy court, but he f showed no sign of fatigue. " He did not look at the prisoner as he j gathered his notes into a neat sheaf and ;$urned to address the jury, but the ^prisoner looked at him. Her eyes, like dark I smudges under the heavy square brows, I seemed equally without fear and without hope. They waited. "Members of the jury --" The patient old eyes seemed to sum them up and take stock of their united intelligence. Three respectable tradesmen -- a tall, argumentative one, a stout, embarrassed one with a drooping moustache, and an unhappy one with a bad cold; a director of a large company, anxious not to waste valuable time; a publican, incongruously cheerful; two youngish men of the artisan class; a nondescript, elderly man, of educated appearance, who might have been anything: an artist with a red beard disguising a weak chin; three women -- an elderly spinster, a stout capable woman who kept a sweet-shop, and a harassed wife and mother whose thoughts seemed to be continually straying to her abandoned hearth. "Members of the jury -- you have listened with great patience and attention to the evidence in this very distressing case, and it is now my duty to sum up the facts and arguments which have been put before you by the learned Attorney General and by the learned Counsel for the Defence, and to put them in order as clearly as possible, so as to help you in forming your decision. "But first of all, perhaps I ought to say a few words with regard to that decision itself. You know, I am sure, that it is a great principle of English law that every accused person is held to be innocent unless and until he is proved otherwise. It is not necessary for him, or her, to prove innocence; it is, in the modern slang phrase, 'up to* the Crown to prove guilt, and unless you are quite satisfied that the Crown has done this beyond all reasonable doubt, it is your duty to return a verdict of 'Not Guilty.' That does not necessarily mean that the prisoner has established her innocence by proof; it simply means that the Crown has failed to produce in your minds an undoubted conviction of her guilt." Salcombe Hardy, lifting his drownedviolet eyes for a moment from his reporter's note-book, scribbled two words on a slip of paper and pushed them over to Waffles Newton. "Judge hostile." Waffles nodded. They were old hounds on this blood-trail. The judge creaked on. "You may perhaps wish to hear from me exactly what is meant by those words 'reasonable doubt.' They mean, just so much doubt as you might have in everyday life about an ordinary matter of business. This is a case of murder, and it might be natural for you to think that, in such a case, the words mean more than this. But that is not so. They do not mean that you must cast about for fantastical solutions of what seems to you plain and simple. They do not mean those nightmare doubts which sometimes torment us at four o'clock in the morning when we have not slept very well. They only mean that the proof must be such as you would accept about a plain matter of buying and selling, or some such commonplace transaction. You must not strain your belief in favour of the prisoner any more, of course, than you must accept proof of her guilt without the most careful scrutiny. "Having said just these few words, so that you may not feel too much overwhelmed by the heavy responsibility laid upon you by your duty to the State, I will now begin at the beginning and try to place the story that we have heard, as clearly as possible before you. "The case for the Crown is that the prisoner, Harriet Vane, murdered Philip Boyes by poisoning him with arsenic. I need not detain you by going through the proofs offered by Sir James Lubbock and the other doctors who have given evidence as to the cause of death. The Crown say he died of arsenical poisoning, and the defence do not dispute it. The evidence is, therefore, that the death was due to toenic, and you must accept that as a fact. The only question that remains for $o\i is whether, in fact, that arsenic was ^deliberately administered by the prisoner irith intent to murder. - >-j fc "The deceased, Philip Boyes, was, as f ou have heard, a writer. He was thirty-six j years old, and he had published five Novels and a large number of essays and riirticles. All these literary works were of ftftiat is sometimes called an 'advanced* They preached doctrines which may Waffles nodded. They were old hounds on this blood-trail. The judge creaked on. "You may perhaps wish to hear from me exactly what is meant by those words 'reasonable doubt.' They mean, just so much doubt as you might have in everyday life about an ordinary matter of business. This is a case of murder, and it might be natural for you to think that, in such a case, the words mean more than this. But that is not so. They do not mean that you must cast about for fantastical solutions of what seems to you plain and simple. They do not mean those nightmare doubts which sometimes torment us at four o'clock in the morning when we have not slept very well. They only mean that the proof must be such as you would accept about a plain matter of buying and selling, or some such commonplace transaction. You must not strain your belief in favour of the prisoner any more, of course, than you must accept proof of her guilt without the most careful scrutiny. "Having said just these few words, so that you may not feel too much overwhelmed by the heavy responsibility laid upon you by your duty to the State, I will now begin at the beginning and try to place the story that we have heard, as clearly as possible before you. 'The case for the Crown is that the prisoner, Harriet Vane, murdered Philip Boyes by poisoning him with arsenic. I need not detain you by going through the proofs offered by Sir James Lubbock and the other doctors who have given evidence as to the cause of death. The Crown say he died of arsenical poisoning, and the defence do not dispute it. The evidence is, therefore, that the death was due to arsenic, and you must accept that as a fact. The only question that remains for you is whether, in fact, that arsenic was deliberately administered by the prisoner with intent to murder. "The deceased, Philip Boyes, was, as you have heard, a writer. He was thirty-six years old, and he had published five novels and a large number of essays and articles. All these literary works were of what is sometimes called an * advanced* type. They preached doctrines which may seem to some of us immoral or seditious, such as atheism, and anarchy, and what is known as free love. His private life appears to have been conducted, for some time at least, in accordance with these doctrines. "At any rate, at some time in the year 1927, he became acquainted with Harriet Vane. They met in some of those artistic and literary circles where 'advanced' topics are discussed, and after a time they became very friendly. The prisoner is also a novelist by profession, and it is very important to remember that she is a writer of so-called 'mystery' or 'detective' stories, such as deal with various ingenious methods of committing murder and other crimes. "You have heard the prisoner in the witness-box, and you have heard the various people who came forward to give evidence as to her character. You have been told that she is a young woman of great ability, brought up on strictly religious principles, who, through no fault of her own was left, at the age of twenty-three, to make her own way in the world. Since that time — and she is now twenty-nine years old — she has worked industriously to keep herself, and it is very much to her credit that she has, by her own exertions, made herself independent in a legitimate way, owing nothing to anybody and accepting help from no one. "She has told us herself, with great candour, how she became deeply attached to Philip Boyes, and how, for a considerable time, she held out against his persuasions to live with him in an irregular manner. There was, in fact, no reason at all why he should not have married her honourably; but apparently he represented himself as being conscientiously opposed to any formal marriage. You have the evidence of Sylvia Marriott and Eiluned Price that the prisoner was made very unhappy by this attitude which he chose to take up, and you have heard also that he was a very handsome and attractive man, whom any woman might have found it difficult to resist. "At any rate, in March of 1928, the prisoner, worn out, as she tells us, by his unceasing importunities, gave in, and consented to live on terms of intimacy with him, outside the bonds of marriage. "Now you may feel, and quite properly, that this was a very wrong thing to do. You may, after making all allowances for this young woman's unprotected position, still feel that she was a person of unstable moral character. You will not be led away by the false glamour which certain writers contrive to throw about 'free love,' into thinking that this was anything but an ordinary, vulgar act of misbehavior. Sir Impey Biggs, very rightly using all his great eloquence on behalf of his client, has painted this action of Harriet Vane's in very rosy colours; he has spoken of unselfish sacrifice and self-immolation, and has reminded you that, in such a situation, the woman always has to pay rfa more heavily than the man. You will not, I am sure, pay too much attention to this. You know quite well the difference between right and wrong in such matters, and you may think that, if Harriet Vane had not become to a certain extent corrupted by the unwholesome influences among which she lived, she would have shown a truer heroism by dismissing Philip Boyes from her society. "But, on the other hand, you must be careful not to attach the wrong kind of importance to this lapse. It is one thing for a man or woman to live an immoral life, and quite another thing to commit murder. You may perhaps think that one step into the path of wrongdoing makes the next one easier, but you must not give too much weight to that consideration. You are entitled to take it into account, but you must not be too much prejudiced." The judge paused for a moment, and Freddy Arbuthnot jerked an elbow into the ribs of Lord Peter Wimsey, who appeared to be a prey to gloom. 'I should jolly well hope not. Damn it, pounds if every little game led to murder, they'd be hanging half of us for doin' in the other half." "And which half would you be in?" enquired his lordship, fixing him for a moment with a cold eye and then returning his glance to the dock. l< ' "i "Victim," said the Hon. Freddy, "victim. Me for the corpse in the library." "Philip Boyes and the prisoner lived together in this fashion/' went on the judge, "for nearly a year. Various friends have testified that they appeared to live on terms of the greatest mutual affection. Miss Price said that, although Harriet Vane obviously felt her unfortunate position very acutely — cutting herself off from her family friends and refusing to thrust herself into company where her social outlawry might cause embarrassment and so on — yet she was extremely loyal to her lover and expressed herself proud and happy to be his companion. "Nevertheless, in February 1929 there was a quarrel, and the couple separated. It is not denied that the quarrel took place. Mr. and Mrs. Dyer, who occupy the flat immediately above Philip Boyes', say that they heard loud talking in angry voices, the man swearing and the woman crying, and that the next day, Harriet Vane packed up all her things and left the house for good. The curious feature in the case, and one which you must consider very carefully, is the reason assigned for the quarrel. As to this, the only evidence we have is the prisoner's own. According to Miss Marriott, with whom Harriet Vane took refuge after the separation, the prisoner steadily refused to give any information on the subject, saying only that she had been painfully deceived by Boyes and never wished to hear his name spoken again. "Now it might be supposed from this that Boyes had given the prisoner cause for grievance against him, by unfaithfulness, or unkindness, or simply by a continued refusal to regularise the situation in the eyes of the world. But the prisoner absolutely denies this. According to her statement — and on this point her evidence is confirmed by a letter which Philip Boyes wrote to his father — Boyes did at length offer her legal marriage, and this was the cause of the quarrel. You may think this a very remarkable statement to make, but that is the prisoner's evidence on oath. "It would be natural for you to think that this proposal of marriage takes away any suggestion that the prisoner had a cause of grievance against Boyes. Anyone would say that, under such circumstances, she could have no motive for wishing to murder this young man, but rather the contrary. Still, there is the fact of the quarrel, and the prisoner herself states that this honourable, though belated, proposal was unwelcome to her. She does not say — as she might very reasonably say, and as her counsel has most forcefully and impressively said for her, that this marriage-offer completely does away with any pretext for enmity on her part towards Philip Boyes. Sir Impey Biggs says so, but that is not what the prisoner says. She says — and you must try to put yourselves in her place and understand her point of view if you can — that she was angry with Boyes because, after persuading her against her will to adopt his principles of conduct, he then renounced those principles and so, as she says, 'made a fool of her.' "Well, that is for you to consider: whether the offer which was in fact made could reasonably be construed into a motive for murder. I must impress upon you that no other motive has been suggested in evidence." At this point the elderly spinster on the jury was seen to be making a note — a vigorous note, to judge from the action of her pencil on the paper. Lord Peter Wimsey shook his head slowly two or three times and muttered something under his breath. "After this," said the judge, "nothing particular seems to have happened to these two people for three months or so, except that Harriet Vane left Miss Marriott's house and took a small flat of her own in Doughty Street, while Philip Boyes, on the contrary, finding his solitary life depressing, accepted the invitation of his cousin, Mr. Norman Urquhart, to stay at the latter's house in Woburn Square. Although living in the same quarter of London, Boyes and the accused do not seem to have met very often after the separation. Once or twice there was an accidental encounter at the house of a friend. The dates of these occasions cannot be ascertained with any certainty — they were informal parties — but there is some evidence that there was a meeting towards the end of March, another in the second week in April, and a third some time in May. These times are worth noting, though, as the exact day is left doubtful, you must not attach too much importance to them. "However, we now come to a date of the very greatest importance. On April 10th, a young woman, who has been identified as Harriet Vane, entered the chemist's shop kept by Mr. Brown in Southampton Row, and purchased two ounces of commercial arsenic, saying that she needed it to destroy rats. She signed the poison-book in the name of Mary Slater, and the handwriting has been identified as that of the prisoner. Moreover, the prisoner herself admits having made this purchase, for certain reasons of her own. For this reason it is comparatively unimportant — but you may think it worth noting — that the housekeeper of the flats where Harriet Vane lives has come here and told you that there are no rats on the premises, and never have been in the whole time of her residence there. "On May 5th. we have another purchase of arsenic. The prisoner, as she herself states, this time procured a tin of arsenical weed-killer, of the same brand that was mentioned in the Kidwelly poisoning case. This time she gave the name of Edith Waters. There is no garden attached to the flats where she lives, nor could there be any conceivable use for weed-killer on the premises. "On various occasions also, during the period from the middle of March to the beginning of May, the prisoner purchased other poisons, including prussic acid (ostensibly for photographic purposes) and strychnine. There was also an attempt to obtain aconitine, which was not Successful. A different shop was approached and a different name given in each case. The arsenic is the only poison which directly concerns this case, but these other purchases are of some importance, &s throwing light on the prisoner's activities at this time. The prisoner has given an explanation «r of these purchases which you must consider for what it is worth. She says that she was engaged at that time in writing a novel about poisoning, and that she bought the drugs in order to prove by experiment how easy it was for an ordinary person to get hold of deadly poisons. In proof of this, her publisher, Mr. Trufoot, has produced the manuscript of the book. You have had it in your hands, and you will be given it again, if you like, when I have finished my summing-up, to look at in your own room. Passages were read out to you, showing that the subject of the book was murder by arsenic, and there is a description in it of a young woman going to a chemist's shop and buying a considerable quantity of this deadly substance. And I must mention here what I should have mentioned before, namely, that the arsenic purchased from Mr. Brown was the ordinary commercial arsenic, which is coloured with charcoal or indigo, as the law requires, in order that it may not be mistaken for sugar or any other innocent substance." Salcombe Hardy groaned: "How long, O Lord, how long shall we have to listen to all this tripe about commercial arsenic? Murderers learn it now at their mother's knee." "I particularly want you to remember those dates — I will give them to you again — the 10th. April and the 5th. May." (The jury wrote them down. Lord Peter Wimsey murmured: "They all wrote down on their slates, 'She doesn't believe there's an atom of meaning in it.' " The Hon. Freddy said "What? What?" and the judge turned over another page of his notes.) "About this time, Philip Boyes began to suffer from renewed attacks of a gastric trouble to which he had been subject from jtime to time during his life. You have read e evidence of Dr. Green, who attended for something of the sort during his University career. That is some time ago; r^but there is also Dr. Weare, who, in 1925 prescribed for a similar attack. Not grave illnesses, but painful and exhausting, with ickness and so on, and aching in the bs. Plenty of people have such troubles from time to time. Still, there is a coincidence of dates here which may be significant. We get these attacks — noted in Dr. Weare's case-book — one on the 31st. of March, one on the 15th. of April and one on the 12th. of May. Three sets of coincidences — as you may perhaps think them to be — Harriet Vane and Philip Boyes meet Howards the end of March,' and he has an attack of gastritis on March 31st; on 10th. April Harriet Vane purchases two ounces of arsenic — they meet again 'in the second week in April,' and on April 15th, he has another attack; on 5th. May, there is the purchase of weed-killer — 'some time in May' there is another meeting, and on the 12th. May he is taken ill for the third time. You may think that this is rather curious, but you must not forget that the Crown have failed to prove any purchase of arsenic before the meeting in March. You must bear that in mind when considering this point. "After the third attack — the one in May — the doctor advises Boyes to go away for a change, and he selects the north-west corner of Wales. He goes to Harlech, and spends a very pleasant time there and is much better. But he has a friend to accompany him, Mr. Ryland Vaughan, whom you have seen, and this friend says that 'Philip was not happy*. In fact, Mr. Vaughan formed the opinion that he was fretting after Harriet Vane. His bodily health improved, but he grew mentally depressed. And so on June 16th, we find him writing a letter to Miss Vane. Now that is an important letter, so I will read it to you once more: 'Dear Harriet, Life is an utter mess-up. I can't stick it out here any longer. Pve decided to cut adrift and take a trip out West. But before I go, I want to see you once again and find out if it isn't possible to I put things straight again. You must do % as you like, of course, but I still cannot understand the attitude you take up. If I can't make you see the thing in the right perspective this time I'll chuck it for good. I shall be in town on the 20th. |t Let me have a line to say when I c'Now that, as you have realised, is a most ambiguous letter. Sir Impey Biggs, with arguments of great weight, has suggested that by the expressions 'cut adrift and take a trip out west,' 'I can't stick it out here,' and 'chuck it for good,' the writer was expressing his intention to make away with himself if he could not effect a reconciliation with the accused. He points out that 'to go west' is a well-known metaphor for dying, and that, of course, may be convincing to you. But Mr. Urquhart, when examined on the subject by the Attorney-General, said that he supposed the letter to refer to a project which he himself had suggested to the deceased, of taking a voyage across the Atlantic to Barbados, by way of change of scene. And the learned Attorney-General makes this other point that when the writer says, 'I can't stick it out here any longer,' he means, here in Britain, or perhaps merely 'here at Harlech,' and that «i an come round. Yours, P.9 i« 'And it is signed simply *M.' A very cold letter, you may think -- almost hostile in tone. And yet the appointment is faade for 9.30. I "I shall not have to keep your attention ilrery much longer, but I do ask for it at f the phrase had reference to suicide it would read simply, 'I can't stick it out any longer.' "No doubt you have formed your own opinion on this point. It is important to note that the deceased asks for an appointment on the 20th. The reply to this letter is before us; it reads: 'Dear Phil, You can come round at 9.30 on the 20th. if you like, but you certainly will not make me change my mind/ is point, specially -- though you have feeen attending most patiently and tedustriously all the time -- because we ftow come to the actual day of the death Btself." |$ The old man clasped his hands one over ie other upon the sheaf of notes and leaned a little forward. He had it all in his head, though he had known nothing of it until the last three days. He had not reached the time to babble of green fields and childhood ways; he still had firm hold of the present; he held it pinned down flat under his wrinkled fingers with their grey, chalky nails. "Philip Boyes and Mr. Vaughan came back to town together on the evening of the 19th, and there would seem to be no doubt at all that Boyes was then in the best of health. Boyes spent the night with Mr. Vaughan, and they breakfasted together in the usual way upon bacon and eggs, toast, marmalade and coffee. At 11 o'clock Boyes had a Guinness, observing that, according to the advertisements it was 'Good for you.' At 1 o'clock he ate a hearty lunch at his club, and in the afternoon he played several sets of tennis with Mr. Vaughan and some other friends. During the game the remark was made by one of the players that Harlech had done Boyes good, and he replied that he was feeling fitter than he had done for many months. « 'At half-past seven he went round to have dinner with his cousin, Mr. Norman Urquhart. Nothing at all unusual in his manner or appearance was noticed, either by Mr. Urquhart or by the maid who waited at table. Dinner was served at 8 o'clock exactly, and I think it would be a good thing if you were to write down that time (if you have not already done so) and also the list of things eaten and drunk. «i "The two cousins dined alone together, and first, by way of cocktail, each had a glass of sherry. The wine was a fine Oleroso of 1847, and the maid decanted it from a fresh bottle and poured it into the glasses as they sat in the library. Mr. Urquhart retains the dignified old fashioned custom of having the maid in Attendance throughout the meal, so that %e have here the advantage of two Witnesses during this part of the evening. You saw the maid, Hannah Westlock, in the box, and I think you will say she gave ie impression of being a sensible and Sbservant witness. 'Well, there was the sherry. Then came a cup of cold bouillon, served by Hannah Westlock from the tureen on the sideboard. It was very strong, good soup, set to a clear jelly. Both men had some, and after dinner, the bouillon was finished by the cook and Miss Westlock in the kitchen. "After the soup came a piece of turbot with sauce. The portions were again carved at the sideboard, the sauceboat was handed to each in turn, and the dish was then sent out to be finished in the kitchen. "Then came a poulet en casserole -- that is, chicken cut up and stewed slowly with vegetables in a fireproof cooking utensil. Both men had some of this, and the maids finished the dish. "The final course was a sweet omelette, which was made at the table in a chafing dish by Philip Boyes himself. Both Mr. Urquhart and his cousin were very particular about eating an omelette the moment it came from the pan -- and a very good rule it is, and I advise you all to treat omelettes in the same way and never to allow them to stand, or they will get tough. Four eggs were brought to the table jfti in their shells, and Mr. Urquhart broke them one by one into a bowl, adding sugar from a sifter. Then he handed the bowl to Mr. Boyes, saying: 'You're the real dab at omelettes, Philip -- I'll leave this to you'. Philip Boyes then beat the eggs and sugar together, cooked the omelette in the chafing-dish, filled it with hot jam, which was brought in by Hannah Westlock, and then himself divided it into two portions, giving one to Mr. Urquhart and taking the remainder himself. * "I have been a little careful to remind you of all these things, to show that we have good proof that every dish served at Dinner was partaken of by two people at feast, and in most cases by four. The jimelette -- the only dish which did not go it to the kitchen -- was prepared by |hilip Boyes himself and shared by his Kisin. Neither Mr. Urquhart, Miss Festlock nor the cook, Mrs. Pettican, felt ly ill-effects from this meal. "I should mention also that there was ine article of diet which was partaken of fir Philip Boyes alone, and that was ^bottle of Burgundy. It was a fine old Gorton, and was brought to the table in its original bottle. Mr. Urquhart drew the cork and then handed the bottle intact to Philip Boyes, saying that he himself would not take any -- he had been advised not to drink at mealtimes. Philip Boyes drank two glassfuls and the remainder of the bottle was fortunately preserved. As you have already heard, the wine was later analysed and found to be quite harmless. "This brings us to 9 o'clock. After dinner, coffee is offered, but Boyes excuses himself on the ground that he does not care for Turkish coffee, and moreover will probably be given coffee by Harriet Vane. At 9.15 Boyes leaves Mr. Urquhart's house in Woburn Square, and is driven in a taxi to the house where Miss Vane has her flat, No. 100 Doughty Street -- a distance of about half a mile. We have it from Harriet Vane herself, from Mrs. Bright, a resident in the ground floor flat, and from Police Constable D.1234 who was passing along the street at the time, that he was standing on the doorstep, ringing the prisoner's bell, at 25 minutes past 9. She was on the look w out for him and let him in immediately. "Now, as the interview was naturally a private one, we have no account of it to go upon but that of the prisoner. She has told us that as soon as he came in, she offered him 'a cup of coffee which was standing ready upon the gas-ring.' Now, when the learned Attorney-General heard the prisoner say that, he immediately isked what the coffee was standing ready far. The prisoner, apparently not quite toderstanding the purport of the question, replied 'in the fender, to keep hot.' When The question was repeated more clearly, she explained that the coffee was made in ti saucepan, and that it was this which was laced on the gas-ring in the fender. The Lttorney-General then drew the prisoner's Mention to her previous statement made the police, in which this expression ipeared: *I had a cup of coffee ready for on his arrival.' You will see at once the iportance of this. If the cups of coffee re prepared and poured out separately ifore the arrival of the deceased, there every opportunity to place poison in of the cups beforehand and offer the prepared cup to Philip Boyes; but if the coffee was poured out from the saucepan in the deceased's presence, the opportunity would be rather less, though of course the thing might easily be done while Boyes' attention was momentarily distracted. The prisoner explained that in her statement she used the phrase *a cup of coffee* merely as denoting *a certain quantity of coffee.' You yourselves will be able to judge whether that is a usual and natural form of expression. The deceased is said by her to have taken no milk or sugar in his coffee, and you have the testimony of Mr. Urquhart and Mr. Vaughan that it was his usual habit to drink his after-dinner coffee black and unsweetened. "According to the prisoner's evidence, the interview was not a satisfactory one. Reproaches were uttered on both sides, and at 10 o'clock or thereabouts, the deceased expressed his intention of leaving her. She says that he appeared uneasy and remarked that he was not feeling well, adding that her behaviour had greatly upset him. ^At ten minutes past ten -- and I want you to note these times very carefully, the taxi-driver Burke, who was standing on the rank in Guilford Street, was approached by Philip Boyes and told to take him to Woburn Square. He says that Boyes spoke in a hurried and abrupt tone, like that of a person in distress of mind or body. When the taxi stopped before Mr. Urquhart's house, Boyes did not get out, and Burke opened the door to see what was the matter. He found the deceased huddled in a corner with his hand pressed over his stomach and his face pale and i covered with perspiration. He asked him whether he was ill, and the deceased cf replied: 'Yes, rotten.' Burke helped him out and rang the bell, supporting him ith one arm as they stood on the rstep. Hannah Westlock opened the r. Philip Boyes seemed hardly able to his body was bent almost double, d he sank groaning into a hall-chair and ked for brandy. She brought him a stiff andy-and-soda from the dining room, d after drinking this, Boyes recovered fficiently to take money from his « r pocket and pay for the taxi. "As he still seemed very ill, Hannah Westlock summoned Mr. Urquhart from the library. He said to Boyes, 'Hullo, old man — what's the matter with you?' Boyes replied, 'God knows! I feel awful. It can't have been the chicken.' Mr. Urquhart said he hoped not, he hadn't noticed anything wrong with it, and Boyes answered, No, he supposed it was one of his usual attacks, but he'd never felt anything like this before. He was taken upstairs to bed, and Dr. Grainger was summoned by telephone, as being the nearest physician available. "Before the doctor's arrival, the patient vomited violently, and thereafter continued to vomit persistently. Dr. Grainger diagnosed the trouble as acute gastritis. There was a high temperature and rapid pulse, and the patient's abdomen was acutely painful to pressure, but the doctor found nothing indicative of any trouble in the nature of appendicitis or peritonitis. He therefore went back to his surgery, and made up a soothing medicine to control the vomiting — a ^f ™ mixture of bicarbonate of potash, tincture of oranges, and chloroform -- no other drugs. "Next day the vomiting still persisted, and Dr. Weare was called in to consult with Dr. Grainger, as he was well acquainted with the patient's Constitution." Here the judge paused and glanced at the clock. | "Time is getting on, and as the medical evidence has still to be passed in review, I Mil adjourn the Court now for lunch." 'He would," said the Hon. Freddy, Ijust at the beastliest moment when Ijirerybody's appetite is thoroughly taken ly. Come on, Wimsey, let's go and fold chop into the system, shall we? -- Eullo!" Wimsey had pushed past without ling him, and was making his way into the body of the court, where Impey Biggs stood conferring with his iors. 'Seems to be in a bit of a stew," said Mr. rbuthnot, meditatively. "Gone to put an lative theory of some kind, I expect. :«< Wonder why I came to this bally show. Tedious, don't you know, and the girl's not even pretty. Don't think I'll come back after grub." He struggled out, and found himself face to face with the Dowager Duchess of Denver. "Come and have lunch, Duchess," said Freddy, hopefully. He liked the Dowager. "I'm waiting for Peter, thanks, Freddy. Such an interesting case and interesting people, too, don't you think, though what the jury make of it I don't know, with faces like hams most of them, except the artist, who wouldn't have any features at all if it wasn't for that dreadful tie and his beard, looking like Christ, only not really Christ but one of those Italian ones in a pink frock and blue top thing. Isn't that Peter's Miss Climpson on the jury, how does she get there, I wonder?" "He's put her into a house somewhere round about, I fancy," said Freddy, "with a typewriting office to look after and live over the shop and run those comic charity stunts of his. Funny old soul, isn't she? Stepped out of a magazine of the w 'nineties. But she seems to suit his work all right and all that." "Yes — such a good thing too, answering all those shady advertisements and then getting the people shown up and so courageous too, some of them the horridest oily people, and murderers I shouldn't wonder with automatic thingummies and life-preservers in every pocket, and very likely a gas-oven full of bones like Landru, so clever, wasn't he? And really such women — born murderees as somebody says — quite pig-faced but fibt of course deserving it and possibly the photographs don't do them justice, poor |Ungs. The Duchess was even more rambling tan usual, thought Freddy, and as she bke her eyes wandered to her son with a of anxiety unusual in her. Top-hole to see old Wimsey back, isn't he said, with simple kindliness. Wonderful how keen he is on this sort of g, don't you know. Rampages off the ute he gets home like the jolly old -horse sniffing the T.N.T. Regularly to the eyes in it." «1 'Well, it's one of Chief-Inspector Parker's cases, and they're such great friends, you know, quite like David and Beersheba -- or do I mean Daniel?" Wimsey joined them at this complicated moment, and tucked his mother's arm affectionately in his own. "Frightfully sorry to keep you waiting, Mater, but I had to say a word to Biggy. He's having a rotten time, and that old Jeffreys of a judge looks as though he was getting measured for a black cap. I'm going home to burn my books. Dangerous to know too much about poisons, don't you think? Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape the old Bailey." "The young woman doesn't seem to have tried that recipe, does she?" remarked Freddy. "You ought to be on the jury," retorted Wimsey, with unusual acidity, "I bet that's what they're all saying at this moment. I'm convinced that that foreman is a teetotaller -- I saw ginger-beer going into the jury-room, and I only hope it explodes and blows his inside through the top of his skull." "All right, all right," returned Mr. Arbuthnot, soothingly, "what you want is a drink." #x j, Ssr. w &<~ CHAPTER II The scramble for places subsided; the jury returned; the prisoner reappeared in the dock suddenly, like a jack-in-the-box; the judge resumed his seat. Some petals had spilt from the roses. The old voice took up its tale where it had left off. "Members of the jury -- there is no need, I think, for me to recall the course of Philip Boyes' illness in great detail. The nurse was called in on June 21st, and during that day the doctors visited the patient three times. His condition grew steadily worse. There was persistent vomiting and diarrhoea, and he could not keep any food or medicine down at all. On the day after, the 22nd, he was worse still — in great pain, the pulse growing weaker, and the skin about the mouth getting dry and peeling off. The doctors gave him every attention, but could do nothing for him. His father was summoned, and when he arrived he found his son conscious, but unable to lift himself. He was able to speak, however, and in the presence of his father and Nurse Williams he made the remark, Tm going out, Dad, and I'm glad to be through with it. Harriet'll be rid of me now — I didn't know she hated me quite so much.' Now that was a very remarkable speech, and we have heard two very pifferent interpretations put upon it. It is Jffor you to say whether, in your opinion, /vhc meant: 'She has succeeded in getting jrid of me; I didn't know she hated me lough to poison me,' or whether he leant, 'When I realised she hated me so uich, I decided I did not want to live any mger' — or whether, perhaps, he meant either of these things. When people are ill, they sometimes get fantastic ideas, sometimes they wander in their minds; srhaps you may feel that it is not profitable to take too much for granted. Still, those words are part of the evidence, and you are entitled to take them into account. "During the night he became gradually weaker and lost consciousness, and at 3 o'clock in the morning he died, without ever regaining it. That was on the 23rd. of June. "Now, up to this time, no suspicion of any kind had been aroused. Both Dr. Grainger and Dr. Weare formed the opinion that the cause of death was acute gastritis, and we need not blame them for coming to this conclusion, because it was quite consistent both with the symptoms of the illness and with the past history of the patient. A death-certificate was given in the usual way, and the funeral took place on the 28th. "Well, then something happened which frequently does happen in cases of this kind, and that is that somebody begins to talk. It was Nurse Williams who talked in this particular case, and while you will probably think that this was a very wrong and very indiscreet thing for a nurse to 1 do, yet, as it turns out, it was a good thing that she did. Of course, she ought to have told Dr. Weare or Dr. Grainger of her suspicions at the time, but she did not do this, and we may at least feel glad to know that, in the doctors' opinions, even if she had done so, and if they had discovered that the illness was caused by ^arsenic, they would not have been able to anything more to save the life of this [fortunate man. At any rate, what ippened was that Nurse Williams was during the last week of June, to rse another patient of Dr. Weare's, who ippened to belong to the same literary set Bloomsbury as Philip Boyes and Harriet Vane, and while she was there she )ke about Philip Boyes, and said that, her opinion, the illness looked very luch like poisoning, and she even itioned the word arsenic. Well, you low how a thing like that gets about. ie person tells another and it is mssed at tea-parties, or what are known, believe, as cocktail parties, and very m a story gets spread about, and people ition names and take sides. Miss Marriott and Miss Price were told about it, and it also got to the ears of Mr. Vaughan. Now Mr. Vaughan had been greatly distressed and surprised by Philip Boyes' death, especially as he had been with him in Wales, and knew how much he had improved in health while on his holiday, and he also felt very strongly that Harriet Vane had behaved badly about the love-affair. Mr. Vaughan felt that some action ought to be taken about the matter, and went to Mr. Urquhart and put the story before him. Now Mr. Urquhart is a solicitor, and is therefore inclined to take a cautious view of rumours and suspicions, and he warned Mr. Vaughan that it was not wise to go about making accusations against people, for fear of an action for libel. At the same time, he naturally felt uneasy that such a thing should be said about a relation who had died in his house. He took the course — the very sensible course — of consulting Dr. Weare and suggesting that, if he was quite certain that the illness was due to gastritis and nothing else, he should take steps to rebuke Nurse Williams and put an end to the talk. Dr. Weare was naturally very much surprised and upset to hear what was being said, but, since the suggestion had been made, he could not deny that — taking the symptoms only »into account — there was just the bare .possibility of something of the sort, .because, as you have already heard in the medical evidence, the symptoms of senical poisoning and of acute gastritis e really indistinguishable. "When this was communicated to Mr. aughan, he was confirmed in his picions, and wrote to the elder Mr. yes suggesting an enquiry. Mr. Boyes naturally very much shocked, and said it once that the matter should be taken p. He had known of the liaison with arriet Vane, and had noticed that she id not come to enquire after Philip yes, nor attend the funeral, and this d struck him as heartless behaviour. In e end, the police were communicated th and an exhumation order obtained. "You have heard the result of the alysis made by Sir James Lubbock and r. Stephen Fordyce. There was a great deal of discussion about methods of analysis and the way that arsenic behaves in the body and so on, but, I think we need not trouble too much about those fine details. The chief points in the evidence seemed to me to be these, which you may note down if you care to do so. 'The analysts took certain organs of the body — the stomach, intestines, kidneys, liver and so on, and analysed portions of these and found that they all contained arsenic. They were able to weigh the quantity of arsenic found in these various portions, and they calculated from that the quantity of arsenic present in the whole body. Then they had to allow so much for the amount of arsenic eliminated from the body by the vomiting and diarrhoea and also through the kidneys, because the kidneys play a very large part in the elimination of this particular poison. After making allowance for all these things, they formed the opinion that a large and fatal dose of arsenic — four or five grains, perhaps, had been taken about three days before the death. "I do not know whether you quite jlbllowed all the technical arguments about |this. I will try to tell you the chief points I understood them. The nature of rsenic is to pass through the body very luickly, especially if it is taken with food »r immediately following a meal, because ic arsenic irritates the lining of the iternal organs and speeds up the process elimination. The action would be ucker if the arsenic were taken in liquid if it were taken in the form of a ^wder. Where arsenic was taken with, or icdiately on top of a meal, nearly the lole of it would be evacuated within ;nty-four hours after the onset of the less. So you see that, although the actual itities found in the body may seem to and me very small indeed, the mere that they were found there at all, three days of persistent vomiting and rhoea and so on, points to a large having been taken at some time. |Now there was a great deal of jsion about the time at which the iptoms first set in. It is suggested by the pence that Philip Boyes may have taken arsenic himself at some time between leaving Harriet Vane's flat and hailing the taxi in Guilford Street; and they bring forward books which show that in many cases the onset of symptoms takes place in a very short time after taking the arsenic — a quarter of an hour, I think, was the shortest time mentioned where the arsenic was taken in liquid form. Now the prisoner's statement — and we have no other — is that Philip Boyes left her at 10 o'clock, and at ten minutes past he was in Guilford Street. He was then looking ill. It would not take many minutes to drive to Woburn Square at that hour of night, and by the time he got there, he was already in acute pain and hardly able to stand. Now Guilford Street is a very short way from Doughty Street — perhaps three minutes' walk — and you must ask yourselves, if the prisoner's statement is correct, what he did with those ten minutes. Did he occupy himself in going to some quiet spot and taking a dose of arsenic, which he must in that case have brought with him in anticipation of an unfavourable interview with the prisoner? And I may remind you here, that the defence have brought no *m fvidence to show that Philip Boyes ever bought any arsenic, or had access to any prsenic. That is not to say he could not |iave obtained it -- the purchases made by Harriet Vane show that the law about the $ale of poisons is not always as effective one would like it to be -- but the fact mains that the defence have not been able show that the deceased ever had arsenic his possession. And while we are on subject, I will mention that, curiously ugh, the analysts could find no traces the charcoal, or indigo, with which ercial arsenic is supposed to be ed. Whether it was bought by the soner or by the deceased himself, you *ild expect to find traces of the curing matter. But you may think it ely that all such traces would be oved from the body by the vomiting purging which took place. 'As regards the suggestion of suicide, will have to ask yourselves about e ten minutes -- whether Boyes was g a dose of arsenic, or whether, as is possible, he felt unwell and sat down iCwhere to recover himself, or whether, perhaps, he was merely roaming about in the vague way we sometimes do when we are feeling upset and unhappy. Or you may think that the prisoner was mistaken, or not speaking the truth, about the time he left the flat. "You have also the prisoner's statement that Boyes mentioned, before he left her, that he was feeling unwell. If you think this had anything to do with the arsenic, it of course disposes of the suggestion that he took poison after leaving the flat. "Then, when one looks into it, one finds that this question about the onset of symptoms is left very vague. Various doctors came here and told you about their own experiences and the cases quoted by medical authorities in books, and you will have noticed that there is no certainty at all about the time when the symptoms may be expected to appear. Sometimes it is a quarter of an hour or half an hour, sometimes two hours, sometimes as much as five or six, and, I believe, in one case as much as seven hours after taking the poison." Here the Attorney-General rose jpectfully and said: "In that case, me id, I think I am right in saying that the rison was taken on an empty stomach/' pounds Thank you, I am much obliged to you the reminder. That was a case in which poison was taken on an empty >mach. I only mention these cases to >w that we are dealing with a very ;rtain phenomenon, and that is why I particular to remind you of all the jions on which Philip Boyes took during the day — the 20th of June, there is always the possibility that may have to take them into iideration." HA beast, but a just beast," murmured Peter Wimsey. 'I have purposely left out of sideration until now another point :h arose out of the analysis, and that presence of arsenic in the hair. The jed had curly hair, which he wore long; the front portion, when itened out, measured about six or inches in places. Now, in this hair, ic was found, at the end closest to lead. It did not extend to the tips of the longest hair, but it was found near the roots, and Sir James Lubbock says that the quantity was greater than could be accounted for in any natural way. Occasionally, quite normal people are found to have minute traces of arsenic in hair and skin and so on, but not to the amount found here. That is Sir James' opinion. "Now you have been told — and the medical witnesses all agree in this — that if a person takes arsenic, a certain proportion of it will be deposited in the skin, nails and hair. It will be deposited in the root of the hair, and as the hair grows, the arsenic will be carried along with the growth of the hair, so that you get a rough idea, from seeing the position of the arsenic in the hair, how long the administration of arsenic has been going on. There was a good deal of discussion about this, but I think there was fairly general agreement that if you took a dose of arsenic, you might expect to find traces of it in the hair, close to the scalp, after about ten weeks. Hair grows at the rate of about six inches a year, and the arsenic ^frill grow out with it till it reaches the far id and is cut off. I am sure that the ies on the jury will understand this very ;11, because I believe that the same thing rs in the case of what is termed a jrmanent wave.' The wave is made in certain portion of the hair, and after a ie it grows out, and the hair near the Ip comes up straight and has to be Ived again. You can tell by the position ie wave, how long ago the waving was ie. In the same way, if a finger-nail is Bsed, the discolouration will gradually up the nail until it reaches the point re you can cut it off with the scissors. I'Now it has been said that the presence senic in and about the roots of Philip l^es' hair indicates that he must have ten arsenic three months at least before death. You will consider what >rtance is to be attached to this in of the prisoner's purchases of arsenic Lpril and May, and of the deceased's :ks 'of sickness in March, April and The quarrel with the prisoner took m February; he was ill in March and led in June. There are five months between the quarrel and the death, and four months between the first illness and the death, and you may think that there is some significance in these dates. "We now come to the enquiries made by the police. When suspicion was aroused, detectives investigated Harriet Vane's movements and subsequently went to her flat to take a statement from her. When they told her that Boyes was found to have died of arsenic poisoning, she appeared very much surprised, and said, * Arsenic? What an extraordinary thing!' And then, she laughed, and said, *Why, I am writing a book all about arsenic poisoning.' They asked her about the purchases of arsenic and other poisons which she had made and she admitted them quite readily and at once gave the same explanation that she gave here in court. They asked what she had done with the poisons, and she replied that she had burnt them because theyovere dangerous things to have about. The flat was searched, but no poisons of any kind were found, except such things as aspirin and a few ordinary medicines of that kind. She jolutely denied having administered rsenic or any kind of poison to Philip >yes. She was asked whether the arsenic Id possibly have got into the coffee by ;ident, and replied that that was quite ipossible, as she had destroyed all the rfsons before the end of May." [ere Sir Impey Biggs interposed and ^ed with submission to suggest that his ship should remind the jury of the lence given by Mr. Challoner. 'Certainly, Sir Impey, I am obliged to You remember that Mr. Challoner is let Vane's literary agent. He came to tell us that he had discussed with as long ago as last December the ject of her forthcoming book, and she told him that it was to be about Jons, and very probably about arsenic. ;you may think it is a point in the mer's favour that this intention of ig the purchase and administration rsenic was already in her mind some before the quarrel with Philip Boyes place. She evidently gave considerable it to the subject, for there were a of books on her shelves dealing with forensic medicine and toxicology, and also the reports of several famous poison trials, including the Madeleine Smith case, the Seddon case and the Armstrong case — all of which were cases of arsenical poisoning. "Well, I think that is the case as it is presented to you. This woman is charged with having murdered her former lover by arsenic. He undoubtedly did take arsenic, and if you are satisfied that she gave it to him with intent to injure or kill him, and that he died of it, then it is your duty to find her guilty of murder. "Sir Impey Biggs, in his able and eloquent speech, has put it to you that she had very little motive for such a murder, but I am bound to tell you that murders are very often committed for what seem to be most inadequate motives — if, indeed, any motive can be called adequate for such a crime. Especially where the parties are husband and wife, or have lived together as husband and wife, there are likely to be passionate feelings which may tend to crimes of violence in persons with inadequate moral standards and of ibalanced mind. The prisoner had the means — the rsenic — she had the expert knowledge, id she had the opportunity to administer t. The defence say that this is not enough. icy say the Crown must go further and wove that the poison could not have been :en in any other way — by accident, or ith suicidal intent. That is for you to idge. If you feel that there is any isonable doubt that the prisoner gave poison to Philip Boyes deliberately, m must bring her in Not Guilty of jurder. You are not bound to decide how was given, if it was not given by her. msider the circumstances of the case as whole, and say what conclusion you Ive come to." CHAPTER III "They won't be long, I shouldn't think," said Waffles Newton, "it's pretty damned obvious. Look here, old man, I'm going to push my stuff in. Will you let me know what happens?" "Sure," said Salcombe Hardy, "if you don't mind dropping mine in at our place as you go. You couldn't send me a drink by 'phone, could you? My mouth's like the bottom of a parrot's cage." He looked at his watch. "We shall miss the 6.30 edition, unless they hurry up. The old man is careful but he's damned slow." "They can't in decency not make a pretence of consulting about it," said Newton. "I give them twenty minutes. iey'11 want a smoke. So do I. I'll be ;k at ten to, in case." [e wriggled his way out. Cuthbert »gan, who reported for a morning paper, was a man of more leisure, settled to write up a word-picture of the He was a phlegmatic and sober son and could write as comfortably in as anywhere else. He liked to be on spot when things happened, and to down glances, tones of voice, colour ts and so forth. His copy was always staining, and sometimes even ushed. reddy Arbuthnot, who had not, after jone home after lunch, thought it was to do so now. He fidgeted and sey frowned at him. The Dowager less made her way along the benches squeezed in next to Lord Peter. Sir Biggs, having watched over his l^s interests to the last, disappeared, ting cheerfully to the Attorneyl, and followed by the smaller legal le dock was deserted. On the bench roses stood solitary, their petals ig Chief-Inspector Parker, disengaging himself from a group of friends, came slowly up through the crowd and greeted the Dowager. "And what do you think of it, Peter?" he added, turning to Wimsey, "rather neatly got up, eh?" "Charles," said Wimsey, "you ought not to be allowed out without me. You've made a mistake, old man." "Made a mistake?" "She didn't do it." "Oh, come!" "She did not do it. It's very convincing and water-tight, but it's all wrong." "You don't really think that." "I do." Parker looked distressed. He had confidence in Wimsey's judgment, and, in spite of his own interior certainty, he felt shaken. My dear man, Where's the flaw in it?" There isn't one. It's damnably knife proof. There's nothing wrong about it at all, except that the girl's innocent." "You're turning into a common or garden psychologist," said Parker, with an uneasy laugh, "isn't he, Duchess?" «i «r "I wish I had known that girl," replied The Dowager, in her usual indirect ler, "so interesting and a really larkable face, though perhaps not ictly good-looking, and all the more iteresting for that, because good-looking >ple are so often cows. I have been iding one of her books, really quite >d and so well-written, and I didn't jtess the murderer till page 200, rather rer, because I usually do it about page So very curious to write books about les and then be accused of a crime *s self, some people might say it was a lent. I wonder whether, if she didn't it, she has spotted the murderer ;lf? I don't suppose detective writers much in real life, do they, except Wallace of course, who always to be everywhere and dear Conan le and the black man what was his le and of course the Slater person, a scandal, though now I come to of it that was in Scotland where they Such very odd laws about everything icularly getting married. Well, I )se we shall soon know now, not the truth, necessarily, but what the jury have made of it." "Yes; they are being rather longer than I expected. But, I say, Wimsey, I wish you'd tell me --" "Too late, too late, you cannot enter now. I have locked my heart in a silver box and pinned it wi' a golden pin. Nobody's opinion matters now, except the jury's. I expect Miss Climpson is telling 'em all about it. When once she starts she doesn't stop for an hour or two." "Well, they've been half-an-hour now," said Parker. "Still waiting?" said Salcombe Hardy, returning to the press-table. "Yes -- so this is what you call twenty minutes! Three-quarters of an hour, I make it." "They've been out an hour-anda-half," said a girl to her fiance, just behind Wimsey. "What can they be discussing?" "Perhaps they don't think she did it after all." "What nonsense! Of course she did it. You could see it by her face. Hard, that's what I call it, and she never once cried anything. l"Oh, I dunno," said the young man. PYou don't mean to say you admired Frank? " (fOh, well, I dunno. But she didn't look ie like a murderess." ffAnd how do you know what a fderess looks like? Have you ever met >99 » PVell, Fve seen them at Madame aid's." |Oh, wax-works. Everybody looks like rderer in a waxworks." rell, p'raps they do. Have a choc." to hours and a quarter," said les Newton, impatiently. "They must %one to sleep. Have to be a special >n. What happens if they are all night it?" te sit here all night, that's all." rell, it's my turn for a drink. Let me f* will you?" light-no!" -we been talking to one of the " said the Man Who Knows the importantly, to a friend. "The shas just sent round to the jury to » ask if he can help them in any way.' "Has he? And what did they say?" "I don't know." "They've been out three hours and a half now," whispered the girl behind Wimsey. "I'm getting fearfully hungry." "Are you, darling? Shall we go?" "No -- I want to hear the verdict. We've waited so long now, we may as well stop on." "Well, I'll go out and get some sandwiches." "Oh, that would be nice. But don't be long, because I'm sure I shall get hysterics when I hear the sentence." ple started booing the prisoner and a ich of men attacked them, and one >w has been carried off in an tbulance." I'Really, how amusing! Look! There's Urquhart; he's come back. I'm so for him, aren't you? It must be id having somebody die in your » ^He's talking to the Attorney-General. 'we all had a proper dinner, of rse." IThe Attorney-General isn't as some as Sir Impey Biggs. Is it true he >s canaries?" le Attorney-General?" iNo, Sir Impey." fYes, quite true. He takes prizes with »> took his seat. The prisoner, very white in the electricity, re-appeared in the dock. The door leading to the jury-room opened. "Look at their faces," said the fiancee, "they say if it's going to be Guilty they never look at the prisoner. Oh, Archie, hold my hand!" The Clerk of Assizes addressed the jury in tones in which formality struggled with reproach. "Members of the jury, have you all agreed upon your verdict?" The foreman rose with an injured and irritable countenance. "I am sorry to say that we find it impossible to come to an agreement." A prolonged gasp and murmur went round the court. The judge leaned forward, very courteous and not in the least fatigued. "Do you think that with a little more time you may be able to reach an agreement?" "I'm afraid not, my lord." The foreman glanced savagely at one corner of the jury-box, where the elderly spinster sat with her head bowed and her hands tightly clasped. "I see no prospect at all of » ever agreeing. ['Can I assist you in any way?" 'No, thank you, my lord. We quite lerstand the evidence, but we cannot about it." "hat is unfortunate. I think perhaps had better try again, and then, if you %till unable to come to a decision, you come back and tell me. In the itime, if my knowledge of the law can >f any assistance to you, it is, of je, quite at your disposal." le jury stumbled sullenly away. The trailed his scarlet robes out at the of the bench. The murmur of rsation rose and swelled into a loud »le. jove," said Freddy Arbuthnot, "I *e it's your Miss Climpson that's the jolly old show up, Wimsey. kju see how the foreman glared at i rood egg," said Wimsey, "oh, fent, excellent egg! She has a fearfully conscience -- she may stick it out sfieve you've been corrupting the jury, Wimsey. Did you signal to her or something?" "I didn't," said Wimsey. "Believe me or believe me not, I refrained from so much as a lifted eyebrow." "And he himself has said it," muttered Freddy, "and it's greatly to his credit. But it's damned hard on people who want their dinners." Six hours. Six hours and a half. "At last!" As the jury filed back for the second time, they showed signs of wear and tear. The harassed woman had been crying and was still choking into her handkerchief. The man with the bad cold looked nearly dead. The artist's hair was rumpled into an untidy bush. The company director and the foreman looked as though they would have liked to strangle somebody, and the elderly spinster had her eyes shut and her lips moving as though she were praying. "Members of the jury, are you agreed upon your verdict?" "No; we are quite sure that it is impossible for us ever to agree." 'You are quite sure?" said the judge. «< lo not wish to hurry you in any way. I quite prepared to wait here as long as you like." ie snarl of the company director was >le even in the gallery. The foreman rolled himself, and replied in a voice with temper and exhaustion. re shall never agree, my lord — not were to stay here till Doomsday." lat is very unfortunate," said the "but in that case, of course, there dng for it but to discharge you and a fresh trial. I feel sure that you all done your best and that you have jht all the resources of your igence and conscience to bear on this to which you have listened with so patient and zealous attention. You {charged, and you are entitled to be from all further jury service for twelve years." lost before the further formalities completed, and while the judge's still flared in the dark little tey, Wimsey had scrambled down well of the court. He caught the ig counsel by the gown. "I 'Biggy -- well done! You've got another chance. Let me in on this and we'll pull it off." "You think so, Wimsey? I don't mind confessing that we've done better than I ever expected." "We'll do better still next time. I say, Biggy, swear me in as a clerk or something. I want to interview her." "Who, my client?" "Yes, I've got a hunch about this case. We've got to get her off, and I know it can be done." "Well, come and see me tomorrow. I must go and speak to her now. I'll be in my chambers at ten. Goodnight." Wimsey darted off and rushed round to the side-door, from which the jury were emerging. Last of them all, her hat askew and her mackintosh dragged awkwardly round her shoulders, came the elderly spinster. Wimsey dashed up to her and seized her hand. "Miss Climpson!" "Oh, Lord Peter. Oh, dear! What a dreadful day it has been. Do you know, it was me that caused the trouble, mostly, lugh two of them most bravely backed up, and oh, Lord Peter, I hope I ^en't done wrong, but I couldn't, no I In't in conscience say she had done it I was sure she hadn't, could I? Oh, oh, dear!" fYou're absolutely right. She didn't do id thank God you stood up to them fgave her another chance. I'm going to re she didn't do it. And I'm going to you out to dinner, and -- I say, Miss >son!" fes?" Jhope you won't mind, because I I't shaved since this morning, but I'm to take you round the next quiet and kiss you. 99 CHAPTER IV The following day was a Sunday, but Sir Impey Biggs cancelled an engagement to play golf (with the less regret as it was pouring cats and dogs), and held an extraordinary council of war. "Well, now, Wimsey," said the advocate, "what is your idea about this? May I introduce Mr. Crofts of Crofts & Cooper, solicitors for the defence." "My idea is that Miss Vane didn't do it," said Wimsey. "I dare say that's an idea which has already occurred to you, but with the weight of my great mind behind it, no doubt it strikes the imagination more forcibly." Mr. Crofts, not being quite clear whether this was funny or fatuous, smiled deferentially. "Quite so," said Sir Impey, "but I should be interested to know how many of the jury saw it in that light." "Well, I can tell you that, at least, because I know one of them. One woman and half a woman and about threequarters of a man." "Meaning precisely?" "Well, the woman I know stuck out for it that Miss Vane wasn't that sort of person. They bullied her a good deal, of course, because she couldn't lay a finger on any real weakness in the chain of evidence, but she said the prisoner's demeanor was part of the evidence and that she was entitled to take that into consideration. Fortunately, she is a tough, thin, elderly woman with a sound digestion and a militant High-Church conscience of remarkable staying-power, and her wind is excellent. She let 'em all gallop themselves dead, and then said she still didn't believe it and wasn't going to say she did." "Very useful," said Sir Impey. "A person who can believe all the articles of the Christian faith is not going to boggle over a trifle of adverse evidence. But we can never hope for a whole jury-box full of ecclesiastical diehards. How about the other woman and the man?" "Well, the woman was rather unexpected. She was the stout, prosperous party who keeps a sweet-shop. She said she didn't think the case was proved, and that it was perfectly possible that Boyes had taken the stuff himself, or that his cousin had given it to him. She was influenced, rather oddly, by the fact that she had attended one or two arsenic trials, and had not been satisfied by the verdict in some other cases — notably the Seddon trial. She has no opinion of men in general (she has buried her third) and she disbelieves all expert evidence on principle. She said that, personally, she thought Miss Vane might have done it, but she wouldn't really hang a dog on medical evidence. At first she was ready to vote with the majority, but she took a dislike to the foreman, who tried to bear her down by his male authority, and eventually she 'w f % ''C said she was going to back up my friend Miss Climpson." Sir Impey laughed. "Very interesting. I wish we always got this inside information about juries. We sweat like hell to prepare evidence, and then one person makes up her mind on what isn't really evidence at all, and another supports her on the ground that evidence can't be relied on. How about the man?" "The man was the artist, and the only person who really understood the kind of life these people were leading. He believed your client's version of the quarrel, and said that, if the girl really felt like that about the man, the last thing she would want to do would be to kill him. She'd rather stand back and watch him ache, like the man with the hollow tooth in the comic song. He was also able to believe the whole story about purchasing the poisons, which to the others, of course, seemed extremely feeble. He also said that Boyes, from what he had heard, was a conceited prig, and that anybody who disposed of him was doing a public service. He had had the misfortune to read some of his books, and considered the man an excrescence and a public nuisance. Actually he thought it more than likely that he had committed suicide, and if anybody was prepared to take that point of view he was ready to second it. He also alarmed the jury by saying that he was accustomed to late hours and a stale atmosphere, and had not the slightest objection to sitting up all night. Miss Climpson also said that, in a righteous cause, a little personal discomfort was a trifle, and added that her religion had trained her to fasting. At that point, the third woman had hysterics and another man, who had an important deal to put through next day, lost his temper, so, to prevent bodily violence, the foreman said he thought they had better agree to disagree. So that's how it was." "Well, they've given us another chance," said Mr. Crofts, "so it's all to the good. It can't come on now till the next session, which gives us about a month, and we'll probably get Bancroft next time, who's not such a severe judge aft] 'Damn it, Wimsey, didn't my eloquent speeches convince you that I was a wholehearted believer?" "Of course they did. I nearly shed tears. Here's old Biggy, I said to myself, going to retire from the Bar and cut his throat if this verdict goes against him, because he won't believe in British justice any more. No -- it's your triumph at having secured a disagreement that gives you away, old horse. More than you expected. You said so. By the way, if it's not a rude question, s Crossley. The thing is, can we do anything to improve the look of our case?" "I'm going to have a strenuous go at it," said Wimsey. 'There must be evidence somewhere, you know. I know you've all worked like beavers, but Fm going to work like a king beaver. And Fve got one big advantage over the rest of you." "More brains?" suggested Sir Impey, grinning. "No -- I should hate to suggest that, Biggy. But I do believe in Miss Vane's innocence." who's paying you, Biggy?" "Crofts and Cooper," said Sir Impey, slyly. "They're in the thing for their health, I take it?" "No, Lord Peter. As a matter of fact, the costs in this case are being borne by Miss Vane's publishers and by a — well, a certain newspaper, which is running her new book as a serial. They expect a scoop as the result of all this. But frankly, I don't quite know what they'll say to the expense of a fresh trial. I'm expecting to hear from them this morning." "The vultures," said Wimsey. "Well, they'd better carry on, but tell 'em I'll see they're guaranteed. Don't bring my name in, though." "This is very generous —" "Not at all. I wouldn't lose the fun of all this for the world. Sort of case I fairly wallow in. But in return you must do something for me. I want to see Miss Vane. You must get me passed in as part of your outfit, so that I can hear her version of the story in reasonable privacy. Get me?" "I expect that can be done," said Sir Impey. "In the meantime you have nothing to suggest?" "Haven't had time yet. But I'll fish out something, don't you worry. I've already started to undermine the confidence of the police. Chief-Inspector Parker has gone home to twine willow-wreaths for his own tomb-stone." "You'll be careful," said Sir Impey. "Anything we can discover will come in much more effectively if the prosecution don't know of it beforehand." "I'll walk as on egg-shells. But if I find the real murderer (if any), you won't object to my having him or her arrested, I take it?" "No; I won't object to that. The police may. Well, gentlemen, if there's nothing further at the moment, we'd better adjourn the meeting. You'll get Lord Peter the facilities he wants, Mr. Crofts? » Mr. Crofts exerted himself with energy and on the following morning, Lord Peter presented himself at the gates of Holloway Gaol, with his credentials. "Oh, yes, my lord. You are to be treated on the same footing as the prisoner's solicitor. Yes, we have had a separate communication from the police and that will be quite all right, my lord. The warder will take you down, and explain the regulations to you." Wimsey was conducted through a number of bare corridors to a small room with a glass door. There was a long deal table in it and a couple of repellent chairs, one at either end of the table. "Here you are, my lord. You sit at one end and the prisoner at the other, and you must be careful not to move from your seats, nor to pass any object over the table. I shall be outside and see you through the glass, my lord, but I shan't be able to overhear nothing. If you will take a seat, they'll bring the prisoner in, my lord." Wimsey sat down and waited, a prey to curious sensations. Presently there was a noise of footsteps, and the prisoner was brought in, attended by a female wardress. She took the chair opposite to Wimsey, the wardress withdrew and the door was shut. Wimsey, who had risen, cleared his throat. "Good afternoon, Miss Vane," he said, unimpressively. The prisoner looked at him. "Please sit down," she said, in the curious, deep voice which had attracted him in Court. "You are Lord Peter Wimsey, I believe, and have come from Mr. Crofts." "Yes," said Wimsey. Her steady gaze was unnerving him. "Yes. I — er — I heard the case and all that, and — er — I thought there might be something I could do, don't you know." "That was very good of you," said the prisoner. "Not at all, not at all, dash it! I mean to say, I rather enjoy investigating things, if you know what I mean." "I know. Being a writer of detective stories, I have naturally studied your career with interest." She smiled suddenly at him and his heart turned to water. "Well, that's rather a good thing in a way, because you'll understand that I'm not really such an ass as Pm looking at present." That made her laugh. "You're not looking an ass — at least, not more so than any gentleman should under the circumstances. The background doesn't altogether suit your style, but you are a very refreshing sight. And Pm really very grateful to you, though Pm afraid Pm rather a hopeless case." "Don't say that. It can't be hopeless, unless you actually did it, and I know you didn't." "Well, I didn't, as a matter of fact. But I feel it's like one book I wrote, in which I invented such a perfectly watertight crime that I couldn't devise any way for my detective to prove it, and had to fall back on the murderer's confession." "If necessary, we'll do the same. You don't happen to know who the murderer is, I suppose?" "I don't think there is one. I really believe Philip took the stuff himself. He was rather a defeatist sort of person, you know." "I suppose he took your separation pretty hard?" "Well, I daresay it was partly that. But [j think it was more that he didn't feel he jfvas sufficiently appreciated. He was apt ; to think that people were in league to spoil ;his chances." "And were they?" [; "No, I don't think so. But I do think he offended a great many people. He was rather apt to demand things as a right -- and that annoys people, you know." "Yes, I see. Did he get on all right with his cousin?" "Oh, yes; though of course he always said it was no more than Mr. Urquhart's duty to look after him. Mr. Urquhart is fairly well off, as he has quite a big professional connection, but Philip really had no claim on him, as it wasn't family money or anything. His idea was that great artists deserved to be boarded and lodged at the expense of the ordinary man. » Wimsey was fairly well acquainted with this variety of the artistic temperament. He was struck, however, by the tone of the reply, which was tinged, he thought, with bitterness and even some contempt. He put his next question with some hesitation. "Forgive my asking, but — you were very fond of Philip Boyes?" "I must have been, mustn't I — under the circumstances?" "Not necessarily," said Wimsey, boldly, "you might have been sorry for him — or bewitched by him — or even badgered to death by him." "All those things." Wimsey considered for a moment. "Were you friends?" "No." The word broke out with a kind of repressed savagery that startled him. "Philip wasn't the sort of man to make a friend of a woman., He wanted devotion. I gave him that. I did, you know. But I couldn't stand being made a fool of. I couldn't stand being put on probation, like an office-boy, to see if I was good enough to be condescended to. I quite thought he was honest when he said he didn't believe in marriage — and then it turned out that it was a test, to see whether my devotion was abject enough. Well, it wasn't. I didn't like having matrimony offered as a bad-conduct prize." "I don't blame you," said Wimsey. "Don't you?" "No. It sounds to me as if the fellow was a prig -- not to say a bit of a cad. Like that horrid man who pretended to be a landscape-painter and then embarrassed the unfortunate young woman with the burden of an honour unto which she was not born. I've no doubt he made himself perfectly intolerable about it, with his ancient oaks and family plate, and the curtseying tenantry and all the rest of it." Harriet Vane laughed once more. "Yes -- it's ridiculous -- but humiliating too. Well, there it is. I thought Philip had made both himself and me ridiculous, and the minute I saw that -- well, the whole thing simply shut down -- flop!" She sketched a gesture of finality. "I quite see that," said Wimsey. "Such a Victorian attitude, too, for a man with advanced ideas. He for God only, she for God in him, and so on. Well, I'm glad you feel like that about it. » "Are you? It's not going to be exactly helpful in the present crisis." "No; I was looking beyond that. What I mean to say is, when all this is over, I want to marry you, if you can put up with me and all that." Harriet Vane, who had been smiling at him, frowned, and an indefinable expression of distaste came into her eyes. "Oh, are you another of them? That makes forty-seven." "Forty-seven what?" asked Wimsey, much taken aback. "Proposals. They come in by every post. I suppose there are a lot of imbeciles who want to marry anybody who's at all notorious." "Oh," said Wimsey. "Dear me, that makes it very awkward. As a matter of fact, you know, I don't need any notoriety. I can get into the papers off my own bat. It's no treat to me. Perhaps I'd better not mention it again." His voice sounded hurt, and the girl eyed him rather remorsefully. "I'm sorry — but one gets rather a bruised sort of feeling in my position. I 99 There have been so many beastlinesses.1 "I know," said Lord Peter. "It was stupid of me --" "No, I think it was stupid of me. But why -- ?" "Why? Oh, well -- I thought you'd be rather an attractive person to marry. That's all. I mean, I sort of took a fancy to you. I can't tell you why. There's no rule about it, you know." "I see. Well, it's very nice of you." "I wish you wouldn't sound as if you thought it was rather funny. I know I've got a silly face, but I can't help that. As a matter of fact, I'd like somebody I could talk sensibly to, who would make life interesting. And I could give you a lot of plots for your books, if that's any inducement." "But you wouldn't want a wife who wrote books, would you?" 99 "But I should; it would be great fun. So much more interesting than the ordinary kind that is only keen on clothes and people. Though of course, clothes and people are all right too, in moderation. I don't mean to say I object to clothes. "And how about the old oaks and the family plate?" "Oh, you wouldn't be bothered with them. My brother does all that. I collect first editions and incunabulae, which is a little tedious of me, but you wouldn't need to bother with them either unless you liked." "I don't mean that. What would your family think about it?" "Oh, my mother's the only one that counts, and she likes you very much from what she's seen of you." "So you had me inspected?" "No — dash it all, I seem to be saying all the wrong things today. I was absolutely stunned that first day in court, and I rushed off to my mater, who's an absolute dear, and the kind of person who really understands things, and I said, 'Look here! here's the absolutely one and only woman, and she's being put through a simply ghastly awful business and for God's sake come and hold my hand!' You simply don't know how foul it was." "That does sound rather rotten. I'm sorry I was brutal. But, by the way, you're bearing in mind, aren't you, that I've had a lover?" "Oh, yes. So have I, if it comes to that. In fact, several. It's the sort of thing that might happen to anybody. I can produce quite good testimonials. I'm told I make | love rather nicely — only I'm at a f disadvantage at the moment. One can't be very convincing at the other end of a table with a bloke looking in at the door." "I will take your word for it. But, however entrancing it is to wander unchecked through a garden of bright images, are we not enticing your mind from another subject of almost equal importance? It seems probable —" "And if you can quote Kai Lung, we should certainly get on together." "It seems very probable that I shall not survive to make the experiment." "Don't be so damned discouraging," said Wimsey. "I have already carefully explained to you that this time / am investigating this business. Anybody would think you had no confidence in me." "People have been wrongly condemned before now." "Exactly; simply because I wasn't there." "I never thought of that." * Think of it now. You will find it very beautiful and inspiring. It might even help to distinguish me from the other fortysix, if you should happen to mislay my features, or anything. Oh, by the way — I don't positively repel you or anything like that, do I? Because, if I do, I'll take my name off the waiting-list at once." "No," said Harriet Vane, kindly and a little sadly. "No, you don't repel me." "I don't remind you of white slugs or make you go gooseflesh all over?" "Certainly not." "I'm glad of that. Any minor alterations, like parting the old mane, or growing a tooth-brush, or cashiering the eyeglass, you know, I should be happy to undertake, if it suited your ideas." "Don't," said Miss Vane, "please don't alter yourself in any particular." "You really mean that?" Wimsey flushed a little. "I hope it doesn't mean that nothing I could do would make me even passable. I'll come in a different set of garments each time, so as to give you a good all-round idea of the subject. Hunter -- my man, you know -- will see to that. He has excellent taste in ties, and socks, and things like that. Well, I suppose I ought to be going. You -- er -- you'll think it over, won't you, if you have a minute to spare. There's no hurry. Only don't hesitate to say if you think you couldn't stick it at any price. I'm not trying to blackmail you into matrimony, you know. I mean, I should investigate for the fun of the thing, whatever happened, don't you see." 'It's very good of you --" 'No, no, not at all. It's my hobby. Not [proposing to people, I don't mean, but ivestigating things. Well, cheer-frightfully 10 and all that. And I'll call again, if I ty." 'I will give the footman orders to admit m," said the prisoner, gravely; "you ill always find me at home." imsey walked down the dingy street with feeling of being almost light-headed. "I do believe I'll pull it off -- she's «i "i sore, of course -- no wonder, after that rotten brute -- but she doesn't feel repelled -- one couldn't cope with being repulsive -- her skin is like honey -- she ought to wear deep red -- and old garnets -- and lots of rings, rather old-fashioned ones -- I could take a house, of course -- poor kid, I would damn well work to make it up to her -- she's got a sense of humour too -- brains -- one wouldn't be dull -- one would wake up, and there'd be a whole day for jolly things to happen in -- and then one would come home and go to bed -- that would be jolly, too -- and while she was writing, I could go out and mess round, so we shouldn't either of us be dull -- I wonder if Bunter was right about this suit -- it's a little dark, I always think, but the line is good --" He paused before a shop window to get a surreptitious view of his own reflection. A large coloured window-bill caught his eye: -- GREAT SPECIAL OFFER ONE MONTH ONLY lit 'Oh, God!" he said softly, sobered at once. "One month -- four weeks -- thirty-one days. There isn't much time. And I don't know where to begin." CHAPTER V "Well now," said Wimsey, "why do people kill people?" He was sitting in Miss Katharine Climpson's private office. The establishment was ostensibly a typing bureau, and indeed there were three efficient female typists who did very excellent work for authors and men of science from time to time. Apparently the business was a large and flourishing one, for work frequently had to be refused on the ground that the staff was working at full pressure. But on other floors of the building there were other activities. All the employees were women -- mostly elderly, but a few still young and attractive -- and if the private register in the steel safe had been consulted, it would have been seen that all these women were of the class unkindly known as "superfluous." There were spinsters with small fixed incomes, or no incomes at all; widows without family; women deserted by peripatetic husbands i and living on a restricted alimony, •j who previous to their engagement by Miss Climpson, had had no resources but bridge and boardinghouse gossip. There were retired and disappointed school-teachers; out-of-work actresses; courageous people who had failed with hat-shops and tea-parlours; and even a few Bright Young Things, for whom the cocktail-party and the night-club had grown boring. These women seemed to spend most of their time in answering advertisements. Unmarried gentlemen who desired to meet ladies possessed of competences, with a view to matrimony; sprightly sexagenarians, who wanted housekeepers for remote country districts; ingenious gentlemen with financial schemes on the look-out for capital; literary gentlemen, anxious for female collaborators; plausible gentlemen about to engage talent for productions in the provinces; benevolent gentlemen, who could tell people how to make money in their spare time — gentlemen such as these were very liable to receive applications from members of Miss Climpson's staff. It may have been coincidence that these gentlemen so very often had the misfortune to appear shortly afterwards before the magistrate on charges of fraud, blackmail or attempted procuration, but it is a fact that Miss Climpson's office boasted a private telephone line to Scotland Yard, and that few of her ladies were quite so unprotected as they appeared. It is also a fact that the money which paid for the rent and upkeep of the premises might, by zealous enquirers, have been traced to Lord Peter Wimsey's banking account. His lordship was somewhat reticent about this venture of his, but occasionally, when closeted with ChiefInspector Parker or other intimate friends, referred to it as "My Cattery." Miss Climpson poured out a cup of tea before replying. She wore a quantity of Uttle bangles on her spare, lace-covered •ists, and they chinked aggressively with rery movement. "I really don't know," she said, >parently taking the problem as a psychological one, "it is so dangerous, as well as so terribly wicked, one wonders fthat anybody has the effrontery to f|indertake it. And very often they gain so little by it." •' "That's what I mean," said Wimsey, 'f what do they set out to gain? Of course, some people seem to do it for the fun of the thing, like that German female, what's her name, who enjoyed seeing people die." "Such a strange taste," said Miss Climpson. "No sugar, I think? — You know, dear Lord Peter, it has been my melancholy duty to attend many deathbeds, and, though a number of them — such as my dear father's — were most Christian and beautiful, I could not call them/w/z. People have very different ideas of fun, of course, and personally I have never greatly cared for George Robey, though Charlie Chaplin always makes me laugh — still, you know, there are disagreeable details attending any deathbed which one would think could hardly be to anybody's taste, however depraved." "I quite agree with you," said Wimsey. "But it must be fun, in one sense, to feel that you can control the issues of life and death, don't you know." "That is an infringement upon the prerogative of the Creator," said Miss Climpson. "But rather jolly to know yourself divine, so to speak. Up above the world so high, like a tea-tray in the sky. I admit the fascination. But for practical purposes that theory is the devil — I beg your pardon, Miss Climpson, respect for sacred personages — I mean, it's unsatisfactory, because it would suit one person just as well as another. If I've got to find a homicidal maniac, I may as well cut my throat at once." "Don't say that/' pleaded Miss Climpson, "even in jest. Your work here — so good, so valuable — would be worth living for in spite of the saddest personal disappointments. And I have known jokes of that kind turn out very badly, in the most surprising ways. There was a young man we used to know, who was given to talking in a sadly random way — a long time ago, dear Lord Peter, while you were still in the nursery, but young men were wild, even then, whatever they say now about the 'eighties — and he said one day to my poor, dear Mother, 'Mrs. Climpson, if I don't make a good bag today, I shall shoot myself (for he was very fond of sport), and he went out with his gun and as he was getting over a stile, he caught the trigger in the hedge and the gun went off and blew his head to pieces. I was quite a girl, and it upset me dreadfully, because he was a very handsome young man, with whiskers which we all admired very much, though today they would be smiled at, and they were burnt right off him with the explosion, and a shocking hole in the side of his head, so they said, for of course I was not allowed to see him." "Poor chap," said his lordship. "Well, let's dismiss homicidal mania from our minds for the moment. What else do 99 people kill people for? "There is -- passion," said Miss Climpson, with a slight initial hesitation at the word, "for I should not like to call it love, when it is so unregulated." "That is the explanation put forward by the prosecution," said Wimsey. "I don't accept it." "Certainly not. But -- it might be possible, might it not, that there was some other unfortunate young woman who was attached to this Mr. Boyes, and felt vindictively towards him?" "Yes, or a man who was jealous. But the time is the difficulty. You've got to have some plausible pretext for giving a bloke arsenic. You can't just catch him standing on a doorstep, and say, 'Here, have a drink of this,' can you?" "But there were ten minutes unaccounted for," said Miss Climpson, shrewdly. "Might he not have entered some public-house for refreshment, and there met an enemy?" "By jove, that's a possibility." Wimsey made a note, and shook his head dubiously. "But it's rather a coincidence. Unless there was a previous appointment to meet there. Still, it's worth looking into. At any rate, it's obvious that Mr. Urquhart's house and Miss Vane's flat were not the only conceivable places where Boyes might have eaten or drunk between seven and 10.10 that evening. Very well: under the head * Passion' we find 1) Miss Vane (ruled out ex hypothesi), 2) jealous lover, 3) ditto rival. Place, Public-house (query). Now we go on to the next motive, and that's Money. A very good motive for murdering anybody who has any, but a poor one in Boyes' case. Still, let us say, Money. I can think of three subheadings for that: 1) Robbery from the person (very improbable); 2) insurance; 3) inheritance." "What a clear mind you have," said Miss Climpson. "When I die you will find * Efficiency' written on my heart. I don't know what money Boyes had on him, but I shouldn't think it was much. Urquhart and Vaughan might know; still, it's not very important, because arsenic isn't a sensible drug to use on anyone you want to rob. It takes a long time, comparatively, to begin business, and it doesn't make the victim helpless enough. Unless we suppose the taxi-driver drugged and robbed him, there was no one who could possibly profit by such a silly crime." Miss Climpson agreed, and buttered a second teacake. "Then, insurance. Now we come to the region of the possible. Was Boyes insured? It doesn't seem to have occurred to anybody to find out. Probably he wasn't. Literary blokes have very little forethought, and are careless about trifles like premiums. But one ought to know. Who might have an insurable interest? His father, his cousin (possibly), other relations (if any), his children (if any) and -- I suppose -- Miss Vane, if he took out the policy while he was living with her. Also, anybody who may have lent him money on the strength of such insurance. Plenty of possibilities there. I'm feeling better already, Miss Climpson, fitter and brighter in every way. Either I'm getting a line on the thing, or else it's your tea. That's a good, stout-looking pot. Has it got any more in it?" « Yes, indeed," said Miss Climpson, eagerly. "My dear father used to say I was a great hand at getting the utmost out of a tea-pot. The secret is to fill up as you go and never empty the pot completely." «i "Inheritance," pursued Lord Peter. "Had he anything to leave? Not much, I shouldn't think. Fd better hop round and see his publisher. Or had he lately come into anything? His father or cousin would know. The father is a parson -- 'slashing trade, that,' as the naughty bully says to the new boy in one of Dean Farrar's books. He has a thread-bare look. I shouldn't think there was much money in the family. Still, you never know. Somebody might have left Boyes a fortune for his beaux yeux or out of admiration for his books. If so, to whom did Boyes leave it? Query: did he make a will? But surely the defence must have thought of these things. I am getting depressed again." Have a sandwich," said Miss Climpson. «r Thank you," said Wimsey, "or some ay. There is nothing like it when you are feeling faint, as the White King truly remarked. Well, that more or less disposes of the money motive. There remains Blackmail." Miss Climpson, whose professional connection with the Cattery had taught her something about blackmail, assented with a sigh. "Who was this fellow Boyes?" enquired Wimsey rhetorically. "I know nothing about him. He may have been a blackguard of the deepest dye. He may have known unmentionable things about all his friends. Why not? Or he may have been writing a book to show somebody up, so that he had to be suppressed at all costs. Dash it all, his cousin's a solicitor. Suppose he has been embezzling Trust deeds or something, and Boyes was threatening to split on him? He'd been living in Urquhart's house, and had every opportunity for finding out. Urquhart drops some arsenic into his soup, and — Ah! there's the snag. He puts arsenic into the soup and eats it himself. That's awkward. I'm afraid Hannah Westlock's evidence rather knocks that on the head. We shall have to fall back on the mysterious stranger in the pub." He considered a little, and then said: "And there's suicide, of course, which is what Fm really rather inclined to believe in. Arsenic is tomfool stuff to commit suicide with, but it has been done. There was the due de Praslin, for instance — if his was suicide. Only, where's the bottle?" "The bottle?" "Well, he must have carried it in something. It might be in a paper, if he took the powdered form, though that would be awkward. Did anybody look for a bottle or paper?" "Where would they look for it?" asked Miss Climpson. "That's the rub. If it wasn't on him, it would be anywhere round about Doughty Street, and it's going to be a job looking for a bottle or paper that was chucked away six months ago. I do loathe suicides — they're so difficult to prove. Oh, well, faint heart never won so much as a scrap of paper. Now look here, Miss Climpson. We've got about a month to work this out in. The Michaelmas Term ends on the 21st; this is the 15th. They can't very well bring it up before then, and the Hilary term starts on January 12th. They'll probably take it early, unless we can show reason for delay. Four weeks to get fresh evidence. Will you reserve the best efforts of yourself and the staff? I don't know yet what I shall want, but I shall probably want something done." "Of course I will, Lord Peter. You know that it is only too great a pleasure to do anything for you -- even if the whole office were not your own property, which it is. Only let me know, at any minute of the night or day, and I will do my very best to help you." Wimsey thanked her, made a few enquiries about the work of the bureau and departed. He hailed a taxi and was immediately driven to Scotland Yard. Chief-InSpector Parker was, as usual, delighted to see Lord Peter, but there was a worried expression on his plain though pleasant face as he greeted his visitor. "What is it, Peter? The Vane case again? " 'Yes. You've come a mucker over «< this, old man, you really have." "Well, I don't know. It looked pretty straightforward to us." "Charles, acushla, distrust the straightforward case, the man who looks you straight in the eyes, and the tip straight from the horse's mouth. Only the most guileful deceiver can afford to be so aggressively straight. Even the path of the light is curved — or so they tell us. For God's sake, old man, do what you can to put the thing right before next assizes. If you don't, I'll never forgive you. Damn it, you don't want to hang the wrong person, do you? — especially a woman and all that." "Have a fag," said Parker. "You're looking quite wild about the eyes. What have you been doing with yourself? I'm sorry if we've got the wrong pig by the ear, but it's the defence's business to point out where we're wrong, and I can't say they put up a very convincing show." "No, confound them. Biggy did his best, but that fool and beast Crofts gave him no materials at all. Blast his ugly eyes! I know the brute thinks she did it. I hope he will fry in hell and be served up with cayenne pepper on a red hot dish!" "What eloquence!" said Parker, unimpressed. "Anybody would think you'd gone goopy over the girl." "That's a damned friendly way to talk," said Wimsey, bitterly. "When you went off the deep end about my sister, I may have been unsympathetic — I daresay I was — but I swear I didn't dance on your tenderest feelings and call your manly devotion 'going goopy over a girl.' I don't know where you pick up such expressions, as the clergyman's wife said to the parrot. * Goopy,' indeed! I never heard anything so vulgar!" "Good lord," exclaimed Parker, "you don't seriously say —" "Oh, no!" retorted Wimsey, bitterly. "I'm not expected to be serious. A buffoon, that's what I am. I now know exactly what Jack Point feels like. I used to think the 'Yeomen' sentimental tosh, but it is all too true. Would you like to see me dance in motley?" "I'm sorry," said Parker, taking his cue rather from the tone than the words. "If it's like that, I'm damned sorry, old man. But what can I do?" "Now you're talking. Look here — the most likely thing is that this unsavoury blighter Boyes committed suicide. The unspeakable defence haven't been able to trace any arsenic to his possession — but then they probably couldn't trace a herd of black cattle over a snow-bound field in broad noonday with a microscope. I want your people to take it up." "Boyes — query arsenic," said Parker, making a note on a pad. "Anything else?" "Yes. Find out if Boyes visited any pub. in the neighbourhood of Doughty Street between, say, 9.50 and 10.10 on the night of Jun. 20th — if he met anybody, and what he took to drink." "It shall be done. Boyes — query pub." Parker made another note. "Yes?" "Thirdly, if any bottle or paper that might have contained arsenic was picked up in that district." "Oh, indeed? And would you like me to trace the 'bus ticket dropped by Mrs. Brown outside Self ridge's in the last Christmas rush? No use making it too tfasy." "A bottle is more likely than a paper," went on Wimsey, ignoring him, "because I think thie arsenic must have been taken in liquid form to work so quickly." Parker made no further protest, but noted d«own "Boyes — Doughty Street — query battle," and paused expectantly. "Yes?" "That's all for the moment. By the way, I should try the garden in Mecklenburgh Square. A thing might lie quite a long time under those bushes." "Very well. I'll do my best. And if you find out anything which really proves that we've b^en on the wrong tack, you'll let us know, won't you? We don't want to make large an-d ignominious public mistakes." "Well — I've just earnestly promised the defence that I'll do no such thing. But if I spot the criminal, I'll let you arrest him." "Thaflks for small mercies. Well, good luck! Fumy for you and me to be on opposite sides, isn't it?" "Very*" said Wimsey. "I'm sorry about it, but it's your own fault." "You shouldn't have been out of » fEngland. By the way --' "Yes?" "You realise that probably all our young friend did during those missing ten minutes was to stand about in Theobalds Road or somewhere, looking for a stray taxi." "Oh, shut up!" said Wimsey, crossly, and went out. CHAPTER VI The next day dawned bright and fair, and Wimsey felt a certain exhilaration as he purred down to Tweedling Parva. "Mrs. Merdle" the car, so called because, like that celebrated lady, she was averse to "row," was sparking merrily on all twelve cylinders, and there was a touch of frost in the air. These things conduce to high spirits. Wimsey reached his destination about 10 o'clock, and was directed to the vicarage, one of those large, rambling and unnecessary structures which swallow the incumbent's income during his life and land his survivors with a heavy bill for dilapidations as soon as he is dead. The Rev. Arthur Boyes was at home, and would be happy to see Lord Peter Wimsey. The clergyman was a tall, faded man, with lines of worry deeply engraved upon his face, and mild blue eyes a little bewildered by the disappointing difficulty of things in general. His black coat was old, and hung in depressed folds from his stooping, narrow shoulders. He gave Wimsey a thin hand and begged him to be seated. Lord Peter found it a little difficult to explain his errand. His name evidently Caroused no associations in the mind of this jgentle and unworldly parson. He decided |not to mention his hobby of criminal Investigation, but to represent himself, with lual truth, as a friend of the prisoner's. |That might be painful, but it would be at least intelligible. Accordingly, he began, Iwith some hesitation: 'I'm fearfully sorry to trouble you, {^specially as it's all so very distressin' and that, but it's about the death of your m, and the trial and so on. Please don't ink I'm wanting to make an interfering nuisance of myself, but I'm deeply interested — personally interested. You see, I know Miss Vane — I — in fact I like her very much, don't you know, and I can't help thinking there's a mistake somewhere and — and I should like to get it put right if possible." "Oh — oh, yes!" said Mr. Boyes. He carefully polished a pair of pince-nez and balanced them on his nose, where they sat crookedly. He peered at Wimsey and seemed not to dislike what he saw, for he went on: "Poor misguided girl! I assure you, I have no vindictive feelings — that is to say, nobody would be more happy than myself to know that she was innocent of this dreadful thing. Indeed, Lord Peter, even if she were guilty, it would give me great pain to see her suffer the penalty. Whatever we do we cannot bring back the dead to life, and one would infinitely prefer to leave all vengeance in the hand of Him to whom it belongs. Certainly, nothing could be more terrible than to take the life of an innocent person. It would haunt me to the end of my days if I thought there were the least :elihood of it. And I confess that, when I saw Miss Vane in court, I had grievous loubts whether the police had done rightly accusing her." "Thank you," said Wimsey, "it is very :ind of you to say that. It makes the job mch easier. Excuse me, you say, 'when lyou saw her in court.' You hadn't met her previously?" 'No. I knew, of course, that my lunhappy son had formed an illicit Iconnection with a young woman, but — I Icould not bring myself to see her — and [indeed, I believe that she, with very proper |feeling, refused to allow Philip to bring her linto contact with any of his relations. Lord fPeter, you are a younger man than I am, you belong to my son's generation, and you will perhaps understand that — though he was not bad, not depraved, I will never think that — yet somehow there was not that full confidence between us which there should be between father and son. No doubt I was much to blame. If only his mother had lived —" "My dear sir," mumbled Wimsey, "I perfectly understand. It often happens. In fact, it's continually happening. The post-war generation and so on. Lots of people go off the rails a bit — no real harm in 'em at all. Just can't see eye to eye with the older people. It generally wears off in time. Nobody really to blame. Wild oats and, er, all that sort of thing." "I could not approve," said Mr. Boyes, sadly, " of ideas so opposed to religion and morality — perhaps I spoke my mind too openly. If I had sympathised more —" "It can't be done," said Wimsey. "People have to work it out for themselves. And, when they write books and so on, and get into that set of people, they tend to express themselves rather noisily, if you see what I mean." "Maybe, maybe. But I reproach myself. Still, this does not help you at all. Forgive me. If there is any mistake and the jury were evidently not satisfied, we must use all our endeavours to put it right. How can I assist?" "Well, first of all," said Wimsey, "and I'm afraid this is rather a hateful question, did your son ever say anything, or write anything to you which might lead you to think that he — was tired of his life or anything of that kind? I'm sorry." "No, no — not at all. I was, of course, asked the same question by the police and by the counsel for the defence. I can truly say that such an idea never occurred to me. There was nothing at all to suggest it." "Not even when he parted company with Miss Vane?" "Not even then. In fact, I gathered that he was rather more angry than despondent. I must say that it was a surprise to me to hear that, after all that had passed between them, she was unwilling to marry him. I still fail to comprehend it. Her refusal must have come as a great shock to him. He wrote so cheerfully to me about it beforehand. Perhaps you remember the letter?" He fumbled in an untidy drawer. "I have it here, if you would like to look at it." "If you would just read the passage, sir," suggested Wimsey. "Yes, oh, certainly. Let me see. Yes. 'Your morality will be pleased to hear, Dad, that I have determined to regularise the situation, as the good people say." He had a careless way of speaking and writing sometimes, poor boy, which doesn't do justice to his good heart. Dear me. Yes. 'My young woman is a good little soul, and I have made up my mind to do the thing properly. She really deserves it, and I hope that when everything is made respectable, you will extend your paternal recognition to her. I won't ask you to officiate — as you know, the registrar's office is more in my line, and though she was brought up in the odour of sanctity, like myself, I don't think she will insist on the Voice that Breathed o'er Eden. I will let you know when it's to be, so that you can come and give us your blessing (qua father if not qua parson) if you should feel so disposed.' You see, Lord Peter, he quite meant to do the right thing, and I was touched that he should wish for my presence." "Quite so," said Lord Peter; and thought, "If only that young man were alive, how dearly I should love to kick his bottom for him." "Well, then there is another letter, saying that the marriage had fallen through. Here it is. 'Dear Dad -- sorry, but Fm afraid your congratulations must be returned with thanks. The wedding is off, and the bride has run away. There's no need to go into the story. Harriet has succeeded in making a fool of herself and me, so there's no more to be said/ Then later I heard that he had not been feeling well -- but all that you know already." "Did he suggest any reason for these illnesses of his?" "Oh, no -- we took it for granted that it was a recurrence of the old gastric trouble. He was never a very robust lad. He wrote in very hopeful mood from Harlech, saying that he was much better, and mentioning his plan of a voyage to Barbados." "He did?" "Yes. I thought it would do him a great deal of good, and take his mind off other things. He spoke of it only as a vague project, not as though anything were settled." "Did he say anything more about Miss Vane?" "He never mentioned her name to me again until he lay dying/ » « 'Yes -- and what did you think of what he said then?" "I didn't know what to think. We had no idea of any poisoning then, naturally, and I fancied it must refer to the quarrel between them that had caused the separation." "I see. Well now, Mr. Boyes. Supposing it was not self-destruction --" "I really do not think it could have been." "Now is there anybody else at all who could have an interest in his death?" "Who could there be?" "No -- no other woman, for instance?" "I never heard of any. And I think I should have done. He was not secretive about these things, Lord Peter. He was remarkably open and straightforward." "Yes," commented Wimsey internally, "liked to swagger about it, I suppose. Anything to give pain. Damn the fellow." Aloud he merely said: "There are other possibilities. Did he, for instance, make a will?" "He did. Not that he had much to leave, poor boy. His books were very cleverly written — he had a fine intellect, Lord Peter — but they did not bring him in any great sums of money. I helped him with a little allowance, and he managed on that and on what he made from his articles in the periodicals." "He left his copyrights to somebody, though, I take it?" "Yes. He wished to leave them to me, but I was obliged to tell him that I could not accept the bequest. You see, I did not approve of his opinions, and I should not have thought it right to profit by them. No; he left them to his friend Mr. Vaughan." "Oh! — may I ask when this will was made?" "It is dated at the period of his visit to Wales. I believe that before that he had made one leaving everything to Miss Vane." "Indeed!" said Wimsey. "I suppose she knew about it." His mind reviewed a number of contradictory possibilities, and he added: "But it would not amount to an important sum, in any case?" "Oh, no. If my son made 50 pounds a year by his books, that was the utmost. Though lii! it;! they tell me," added the old gentleman, with a sad smile, "that, after this, his new book will do better." "Very likely," said Wimsey. "Provided you get into the papers, the delightful reading public don't mind what it's for. Still -- Well, that's that. I gather he would have no private money to leave?" "Nothing whatever. There has never been any money in our family, Lord Peter, nor yet in my wife's. We're quite the proverbial Church mice." He smiled faintly at this little clerical jest. "Except, I suppose, for Cremorna Garden." Tor -- I beg your pardon?" !My wife's aunt, the notorious Cremorna Garden of the 'sixties." 'Good Lord, yes -- the actress?" 'Yes. But she, of course, was never, never mentioned. One did not enquire into the way she got her money. No worse than others, I dare say -- but in those days we were very easily shocked. We have seen and heard nothing of her for well over fifty years. I believe she is quite childish now." "By jove! I'd no idea she was still alive!" «i < « «j oking of his dinner -- it do seem to bring it home to one, like." "It wasn't the dinner that was at fault, anyway," said Wimsey, genially. "Oh, dear, no, sir — we proved that most careful. Not that any accident could happen in my kitchen — I should like to see it! But people do say such things if they get half a chance. Still, there wasn't a thing ate but master and Hannah and I had some of it, and very thankful I was for that, I needn't tell you." "You must be; I am sure." Wimsey was framing a further enquiry, when the violent ringing of the area bell interrupted them. "There's that butcher," said the cook, "you'll excuse me, sir. The parlour-maid's in bed with the influenza, and I'm singlehanded this morning. I'll tell Mr. Urquhart you called." She shut the door, and Wimsey departed for Bedford Row, where he was received by an elderly clerk, who made no difficulty about supplying Mr. Urquhart's address. "Here it is, my lord. Care of Mrs. Wrayburn, Applefold, Windle, Westmorland. But I shouldn't think he would be very long away. In the meantime, could we do anything for you?" "No, thanks. I rather wanted to see him personally, don't you know. As a matter of fact, it's about that very sad death of his cousin, Mr. Philip Boyes." "Indeed, my lord? Shocking affair, that. Mr. Urquhart was greatly upset, with it happening in his own house. A very fine young man, was Mr. Boyes. He and Mr. Urquhart were great friends, and he took it greatly to heart. Were you present at the trial, my lord?" "Yes. What did you think of the verdict?" The clerk pursed up his lips. "I don't mind saying I was surprised. It seemed to me a very clear case. But juries are very unreliable, especially nowadays, with women on them. We see a good deal of the fair sex in this profession," said the clerk with a sly smile, "and very few of them are remarkable for possessing the legal mind." "How true that is," said Wimsey. "If it wasn't for them, though, there'd be much less litigation, so it's all good for business." "Ha, ha! Very good, my lord. Well, we have to take things as they come, but in my opinion — I'm an old-fashioned man — the ladies were most adorable when they adorned and inspired and did not take an active part in affairs. Here's our young lady clerk — I don't say she wasn't a good worker — but a whim comes over her and away she goes to get married, leaving me in the lurch, just when Mr. Urquhart is away. Now, with a young man, marriage steadies him, and makes him stick closer to his job, but with a young woman, it's the other way about. It's right she should get married, but it's inconvenient, and in a solicitor's office one can't get temporary assistance, very well. Some of the work is confidential, of course, and in any case, an atmosphere of permanence is desirable." Wimsey sympathised with the headclerk's grievance, and bade him an affable good-morning. There is a telephone box in Bedford Row, and he darted into it and immediately rang up Miss Climpson. "Lord Peter Wimsey speaking — oh, hullo, Miss Climpson! How is everything? All bright and beautiful? Good! — Yes, now listen. There's a vacancy for a confidential female clerk at Mr. Norman Urquhart's, the solicitor's, in Bedford Row — Have you got anybody? — Oh, good! — Yes, send them all along — I particularly want to get someone in there — Oh, no! no special enquiry — just to pick up any gossip about the Vane business — Yes, pick out the steadiestlooking, not too much face-powder, and see that their skirts are the regulation four inches below the knee — the head-clerk?s in charge, and the last girl left to be married, so he's feeling anti-sex-appeal. Right ho! Get her in and I'll give her her instructions. Bless you, may your shadow never grow bulkier!" C>» "Bunter!" "My lord? Wimsey tapped with his fingers a letter he had just received. "Do you feel at your brightest and most truly fascinating? Does a livelier iris, winter weather notwithstanding, shine upon the burnished Bunter? Have you got that sort of conquering feeling? The Don Juan touch, so to speak?" Bunter, balancing the breakfast tray on his fingers, coughed deprecatingly. "You have a good, upstanding, impressive figure, if I may say s.o," pursued Wimsey, "a bold and roving eye when off duty, a ready tongue, Bunter -- HAPTER VIII and, I am persuaded, you have a way with you. What more should any cook or house-parlourmaid want?" "I am always happy," replied Bunter, "to exert myself to the best of my capacity in your lordship's service." "I am aware of it," admitted his lordship. "Again and again I say to myself, Wimsey, this cannot last. One of these days this worthy man will cast off the yoke of servitude and settle down in a pub. or something, but nothing happens. Still, morning by morning, my coffee is brought, my bath is prepared, my razor laid out, my ties and socks sorted and my bacon and eggs brought to me in a lordly dish. No matter. This time I demand a more perilous devotion -- perilous for us both, my Bunter, for if you were to be carried away a helpless martyr to matrimony, who then would bring my coffee, prepare my bath, lay out my razor and perform all those other sacrificial rites? And yet --" 'Who is the party, my lord?" 'There are two of them, Bunter, two ladies lived in a bower, Binnorie, O «< if Binnorie! The parlourmaid you have seen. Her name is Hannah Westlock. A woman in her thirties, I fancy, and not ill-favored. The other, the cook — I cannot lisp the tender syllables of her name, for I do not know it, but doubtless it is Gertrude, Cecily, Magdalen, Margaret, Rosalys or some other sweet symphonious sound — a fine woman, Bunter, on the mature side, perhaps, but none the worse for that." "Certainly not, my lord. If I may say so, the woman of ripe years and queenly figure is frequently more susceptible to delicate attentions than the giddy and thoughtless young beauty." "True. Let us suppose, Bunter, that you were to be the bearer of a courteous missive to one Mr. Norman Urquhart of Woburn Square. Could you, in the short space of time at your disposal, insinuate yourself, snakelike, as it were, into the bosom of the household?" "If you desire it, my lord, I will endeavour to insinuate myself to your lordship's satisfaction." "Noble fellow. In case of an action for breach, or any consequence of that description, the charges will, of course, be borne by the management." "I am obliged to your lordship. When would your lordship wish me to commence?" "As soon as I have written a note to Mr. Urquhart. I will ring." "Very good, my lord." Wimsey moved over to the writing-desk. After a few moments he looked up, a little peevishly. "Bunter, I have a sensation of being hovered over. I do not like it. It is unusual j* and it unnerves me. I implore you not to hover. Is the proposition distasteful, or do you want me to get a new hat? What is troubling your conscience?" "I beg your lordship's pardon. It had occurred to my mind to ask your lordship, with every respect --" "Oh, God, Bunter -- don't break it gently. I can't bear it. Stab and end the creature -- to the heft! What is it?" "I wished to ask you, my lord, whether your lordship thought of making any changes in your establishment?1 »» Wimsey laid down his pen and stared at the man. "Changes, Bunter? When I have just so eloquently expressed to you my undying attachment to the loved routine of coffee, bath, razor, socks, eggs and bacon and the old, familiar faces? You're not giving me warning, are you?" "No, indeed, my lord. I should be very sorry to leave your lordship's service. But I had thought it possible that, if your lordship was about to contract new ties —" "I knew it was something in the haberdashery line! By all means, Bunter, if you think it necessary. Had you any particular pattern in mind?" "Your lordship misunderstands me. I referred to domestic ties, my lord. Sometimes when a gentleman reorganizes his household on a matrimonial basis, the lady may prefer to have a voice in the selection of the gentleman's personal attendant, in which case —" "Bunter!" said Wimsey, considerably startled, "may I ask where you have contracted these ideas?" "I ventured to draw an inference, my lord." "This comes of training people to be detectives. Have I been nourishing a sleuth-hound on my own hearth-stone? May I ask if you have gone so far as to give a name to the lady?" "Yes, my lord." There was a pause. "Well?" said Wimsey, in a rather subdued tone, "what about it, Bunter?" "A very agreeable lady, if I may say so, my lord." "It strikes you that way, does it? The circumstances are unusual, of course." "Yes, my lord. I might perhaps make so bold as to call them romantic." "You may make so bold as to call them damnable, Bunter." "Yes, my lord," said Bunter, in a tone of sympathy. 'You won't desert the ship, Bunter?" 'Not on any account, my lord." Then don't come frightening me again. My nerves are not what they were. Here is the note. Take it round and do your best." 'Very good, my lord. « «i «r (f » "Oh, and, Bunter." "My lord?" "It seems that I am being obvious. I have no wish to be anything of the kind. If you see me being obvious, will you drop a hint?" "Certainly, my lord." Bunter faded gently out, and Wimsey stepped anxiously to the mirror. "I can't see anything," he said to himself. "No lily on my cheek with anguish moist and fever-dew. I suppose, though, it's hopeless to try and deceive Bunter. Never mind. Business must come first. I've stopped one, two, three, four earths. What next? How about this fellow Vaughan?" When Wimsey had any researches to do in Bohemia, it was his custom to enlist the help of Miss Marjorie Phelps. She made figurines in porcelain for a living, and was therefore usually to be found either in her studio or in some one else's studio. A telephone-call at 10 a.m. would probably catch her scrambling eggs over her own gas-stove. It was true that there had been passages, about the time of the Bellona Club affair,* between her and Lord Peter which made it a little embarrassing and unkind to bring her in on the subject of Harriet Vane, but with so little time in which to pick and choose his tools, Wimsey was past worrying about gentlemanly scruples. He put the call through and was relieved to hear an answering "Hullo!" "Hullo, Marjorie! This is Peter Wimsey. How goes it?" "Oh, fine, thanks. Glad to hear your melodious voice again. What can I do for the Lord High Investigator?" "Do you know one Vaughan, who is mixed up in the Philip Boyes murder mystery?! i» lci y i "Oil, j-clci: /*ic yuu uu lu uuu.' cue yuu uuimg: " "For the defence." "Hurray!" « « Why this pomp of jubilee?" Well, it's much more exciting and 'Oh, Peter! Are you on to that? How gorgeous! Which side are you taking?' *See "The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club," published 1928. l» difficult, isn't it?1 "I'm afraid it is. Do you know Miss Vane, by the way?" >» "Yes and no. I've seen her with the Boyes-Vaughan crowd.; "Like her?" »> "So-so." "Like him? Boyes, I mean?' "Never stirred a heartbeat." "I said, did you like him?" «i "One didn't. One either fell for him or not. He wasn't the merry bright-eyed pal of the period, you know." <wn." "When did this cousin start getting 4** hold of him, then?" "Oh — about two years ago — a little more, perhaps. Asked him to dinner and that sort of thing. The minute I saw him I knew he was out to ruin Philip, body and soul. What he wanted — what Phil wanted, I mean — was freedom and room to turn about in, but what with the woman and the cousin and the father in the background — oh, well! It's no use crying about it now. His work is left, and that's the best part of him. He's left me that to look after, at least. Harriet Vane didn't get her finger in that pie, after all." "I'm sure it's absolutely safe in your hands," said Wimsey. "But when one thinks what there might have been," said Vaughan, turning his blood-shot eyes miserably on Lord Peter, "it's enough to make one cut one's throat, isn't it?" Wimsey expressed agreement. "By the way," he said, "you were with him all that last day, till he went to his cousin's. You don't think he had anything on him in the way of — poison or anything? I don't want to seem unkind — but he was unhappy — it would be rotten to think that he —" "No," said Vaughan, "no. That I'll swear he never did. He would have told me — he trusted me in those last days. I shared all his thoughts. He was miserably hurt by that damned woman, but he wouldn't have gone without telling me or saying good-bye. And besides — he wouldn't have chosen that way. Why should he? I could have given him —" He checked himself, and glanced at Wimsey, but, seeing nothing in his face beyond sympathetic attention, went on: "I remember talking to him about drugs. Hyoscine — veronal — all that sort of thing. He said, 'If ever I want to go out, Ryland, you'll show me the way.' And I would have — if he'd really wanted it. But arsenic! Philip, who loved beauty so much — do you think he would have chosen arsenic? — the suburban poisoner's outfit? That's absolutely impossible." "It's not an agreeable sort of thing to take, certainly," said Wimsey. "Look here," said Vaughan, hoarsely and impressively — he had been putting a constant succession of brandies on top of the caviare, and was beginning to lose his reserve — "Look here! See this!" He pulled a small bottle from his breastpocket. "That's waiting, till I've finished editing Phil's books. It's a comfort to have it there to look at, you know. Peaceful. Go out through the ivory gate — that's classical — they brought me up on the classics. These people would laugh at a fellow, but you needn't tell them I said it — funny, the way it sticks — 'tendebantque manus ripae ulterioris amore' — what's that bit about the souls thronging thick as leaves in Vallombrosa no, that's Milton — 'amorioris ultore ultoriore — damn it — poor Phil!" Here Mr. Vaughan burst into tears and patted the little bottle. Wimsey, whose head and ears were thumping as though he were sitting in an engine-room, got up softly and withdrew. Somebody had begun a Hungarian song and the stove was white-hot. He made signals of distress to Marjorie, who was sitting in a corner with a group of men. One of them appeared to be reading his own poems with his mouth nearly in her ear, and another was sketching something on the back of an envelope, tp the accompaniment of yelps of merriment from the rest. The noise they made disconcerted the singer, who stopped in the middle of a bar, and cried angrily: "Ach! this noise! these interruptions! they are intolerable! I lose myself! Stop! I begin all over again, from the beginning." Marjorie sprang up, apologising. "Fm a brute -- Fm not keeping your icnagerie in order, Nina -- we're being jrfect nuisances. Forgive me, Marya, Fm a bad temper. Fd better pick up Peter id toddle away. Come and sing to me lother day, darling, when Fm feeling *etter and there is more room for my feelings to expand. Good-night, Nina -- fe've enjoyed it frightfully -- and, Boris, iat poem's the best thing you've done, Inly I couldn't hear it properly. Peter, tell iem what a rotten mood Fm in tonight id take me home." 'That's right," said Wimsey, *'nervy, m know -- bad effect on the manners id so on." "Manners," said a bearded gentleman suc'ienly and loudly, "are for the bou. i&ois." «_ ., «Qthing. She suddenly felt as though lething inside her had been put rough a wringer. CHAPTER IX By what ingratiating means Mr. Bunter had contrived to turn the delivery of a note into the acceptance of an invitation to tea was best known to himself. At half-past four on the day which ended so cheerfully for Lord Peter, he was seated in the kitchen of Mr. Urquhart's house, toasting crumpets. He had been trained to a great pitch of dexterity in the preparation of crumpets, and if he was somewhat lavish in the matter of butter, that hurt nobody except Mr. Urquhart. It was natural that the conversation should turn to the subject of murder. Nothing goes so well with a hot fire and buttered crumpets as a wet day without and a good dose of comfortable horrors within. The heavier the lashing of the rain and the ghastlier the details, the better the flavour seems to be. On the present occasion, all the ingredients of an enjoyable party were present in full force. " 'Orrible white, he looked, when he came in," said Mrs. Pettican the cook. "I see him when they sent for nle to bring up the 'of bottles. Three of them, they 'ad, one to his feet and one to his back and the big rubber one to 'is stummick. White and shiverin', he was, and that dreadful sick, you never would believe. And he groaned pitiful." "Green, he looked to me, Cook," said Hannah Westlock, "or you might perhaps :all it a greenish-yellow. I thought it was paundice a-coming on -- more like them ittacks he had in the Spring." "He was a bad colour then," agreed |Mrs. Pettican, "but nothink like to what ie was that last time. And the pains and ramps in his legs was agonising. That truck Nurse Williams very forcible -- a ice young woman she was, and not fstuck-up like some as I could name. '» time. "That's a regular feature of these arsenical cases, or so his lordship tells me," replied Bunter. "A very distressing symptom. Had he ever had anything of the sort before?" » "Not what you could call cramps," said Hannah, "though I remember when he was ill in the Spring he complained of getting the fidgets in the hands and feet. Something like pins-and-needles, by what I understood him to say. It was a worrit to him, because he was finishing one of his articles in a hurry, and what with that and his eyes being so bad, the writing was a trial to him, poor thing.1 Mrs. Pettican,' she said to me, which I call it better manners than callin' you Cook as they mostly do, as though they paid your wages for the right of callin' you out of your name -- 'Mrs. Pettican,' said she, 'never did I see anythink to equal them cramps except in one other case that was the dead spit of this one,' she said, 'and you mark my words, Mrs. Pettican, them cramps ain't there for nothin'.' Ah! little did I understand her meanin' at the "I 'From what the gentleman for the prosecution said, talking it out with Sir James Lubbock," said Mr. Bunter, "I gathered that those pins-and-needles, and bad eyes and so on, were a sign he'd been given arsenic regularly, if I may so phrase it." "A dreadful wicked woman she must 'a' been," said Mrs. Pettican, "-- 'ev another crumpet, do, Mr. Bunter -- a torturin' of the poor soul that longwinded way. Bashin' on the 'ed or the 'asty use I of a carvin' knife when roused I can [Understand, but the 'errors of slow ipoisonin' is the work of a fiend in 'uman form, in my opinion." 'Fiend is the only word, Mrs. Pettican," sreed the visitor. 'And the wickedness of it," said lannah, "quite apart from the causing of painful death to a fellow-being. Why, 's only the mercy of Providence we weren't all brought under suspicion." 'Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Pettican. 'Why, when master told us about them iggin' poor Mr. Boyes up and findin' full of that there nasty arsenic, it give me sech a turn I felt as if the room wj a-goin' round like the gallopin' 'or ses the roundabouts. 'Oh, sir!' I ses, 'what, i| our 'ouse!' That's what I ses, and he s< 'Mrs. Pettican,' he ses, 'I sincerely hoi not.' " Mrs. Pettican, having imparted tl Macbeth-like flavour to the story, wj pleased with it, and added: "Yes, that's what I said to 'im. 'In 01 'ouse,' I said, and I'm sure I never slep'; wink for three nights afterwards, wl with the police and the fright and oi thing and another." "But of course you had no difficulty proving that it hadn't happened in tl house?" suggested Bunter. "Miss Westlc gave her evidence so beautifully at trial, I'm sure she made it clear as cle could be to judge and jury. The juc congratulated you, Miss Westlock, I'm sure he didn't say nearly enough —i plainly and well as you spoke up beft the whole court." "Well, I never was one to be ,sM confessed Hannah, "and then, what going through it all so careful with and then with the police, I knew gthe questions would be and was as you might say." ponder you could speak so exactly to fettle detail, all that time ago," said with admiration. |11, you see, Mr. Bunter, the very after Mr. Boyes was took ill, comes down to us and he says, iin that chair ever so friendly, just light be yourself, Tm afraid Mr. very ill/ he says. 'He thinks he ive ate something as disagreed with |e says, 'and perhaps as it might be [en. So I want you and Cook,' he run through with me everything yfor dinner last night to see if we what it could have been.' 'Well, lid, 'I don't see that Mr. Boyes ive ate anything unwholesome cCook and me had just the same, yourself, sir, and it was all as good as it could be,' I said." said the same," said the Cook, ilain simple dinner as it was, too rs nor mussels nor anything of ills it's well known shell-fish is poison to some people's stummicks, but a good stren'thenin' drop a' soup, and a bit of nice fish and a casseroled chicken with turnips and carrots done in the gravy, and a omelette, wot could be lighter and better? Not but there's people as can't relish eggs in any form, my own mother was just the same, 'give her so much as a cake what had bin made with a egg in it and she'd be that sick and come out all over spots like nettle-rash, you'd be surprised. But Mr. Boyes was a great gentleman for eggs, and omelettes was his particular favourite." "Yes, he made the omelette himself that very night, didn't he?" "He did," said Hannah, "and well I remember it, for Mr. Urquhart asked particular after the eggs, was they new-laid, and I reminded him they was some he had brought in himself that afternoon from that shop on the corner of Lamb's Conduit Street where they always have them fresh from the farm, and I reminded him that one of them was a little cracked and he'd said, 'We'll use that in the omelette tonight, Hannah,' and I brought bowl from the kitchen in and put it in -- the cracked one and fcre besides, and never touched till I brought them t to table, 's more, sir,' I said, 'thrfhere's the it still here out of the dooozen, and see for yourself they're z as good as they can be/ DCDidn't I, iah. And as for the z chicken, little beauty. It was thsnat young , I says to Hannah at the tine a shame to casserole z it, for it roasted beautiful. H But Mr, iis very partial to a cacasseroled says as there's more flsJTlavour to ray, and I dunno but wvavhat he's with a good beef " stock," Mr. Bunter, judiciallLlly, "the well packed in layersrs, on a of bacon, not too fat, t, and the seasoned with salt, per^ppper and There are few dishes to oo beat a Ihicken. For my owm n part I lend a soupgon of ga^arlic, but that such is not ajaagreeabk i to all tastes." "I can't a-bear the smell or sight of the stuff," said Mrs. Pettican, frankly, "but as for the rest I'm with you, always allowing that the giblets is added to the stock, and I would personally favour mushrooms when in season, but not them tinned or bottled sorts as looks pretty but has no more taste to 'em than boot buttons if so much. But the secret is in the cooking, as you know well, Mr. Bunter, the lid being kep' well sealed down to 'old the flavour and the cookin' being' slow to make the juices perambulate through and through each other as you might say. I'm not denyin' as sech is very 'ighly enjoyable, and so Hannah and me found it, though fond of a good roast fowl also, when well-basted with a good rich stuffing to rejuice the dryness. But as to roasting it, Mr. Urquhart wouldn't hear of it, and being ' as it's him that pays the bills, he has the right to give his orders." "Well," said Bunter, "it's certain if there had been anything unwholesome about the casserole, you and Miss Westlock could scarcely have escaped it. » "No, indeed," said Hannah, "for I won't conceal that, being blessed with hearty appetities, we finished it every bit, except a little piece I gave to the cat. Mr. Urquhart asked to see the remains of it next day, and seemed quite put out to find it was all gone and the dish washed up — as though any washing-up was ever left over-night in this kitchen." "I couldn't abear myself if I had to begin the day with dirty dishes," said Mrs. Pettican. "There was a drop of the soup left — not much, jest a wee drain, and Mr. Urquhart took that up to show to the doctor, and he tasted it and said it was very good, so Nurse Williams told us, though she didn't have none of it herself." "And as for the burgundy," said Hannah Westlock, "which was the only thing Mr. Boyes had to himself, like, Mr. Urquhart told me to cork it up tight and keep it. And just as well we did, because, rof course, the police asked to see it when the time came." "It was very far-seeing of Mr. Urquhart to take such precautions," said Bunter, "when there wasn't any thought at the time but that the poor man died naturally." "That's what Nurse Williams said," replied Hannah, "but we put it down to him being a solicitor and knowing what ought to be done in a case of sudden death. Very particular he was, too — got me to put a bit of sticking-plaster over the mouth of the bottle and write my initials on it, so that it shouldn't be opened accidental. Nurse Williams always said he expected an inquest, but Dr. Weare being there to speak to Mr. Boyes having had these kind of bilious attacks all his life, of course there was no question raised about giving the certificate." "Of course not," said Bunter, "but it's very fortunate as it turns out that Mr. Urquhart should have understood his duty so well. Many's the case his lordship has seen in which an innocent man has been brought near to the gallows for lack of a simple little precaution like that." "And when I think how near Mr. Urquhart was to being away from 'ome at the time," said Mrs. Pettican, "the thought fair gives me palpitations. Called away, he was, to that tiresome old woman what's always a-dying and never dies. Why, he's there now — Mrs. Wrayburn, up in Windle. Rich as Sneezes, she is, by all accounts, and no good to nobody, for she's gone quite childish, so they say. A wicked old woman she was, too, in 'er day, and 'er other relations wouldn't 'ave nothink to do with 'er, only Mr. Urquhart, and I don't suppose 'e wouldn't, neither, only 'e's her solicitor and it's his duty so to do." "Duty does not always lie in pleasant places," commented Mr. Bunter, "as you and I well know, Mrs. Pettican." "Them that are rich," said Hannah Westlock, "find no difficulty about getting their duties performed for them. Which I will make bold to say, Mrs. Wrayburn would not have done if she had been poor, great-aunt or no great-aunt, knowing Mr. Urquhart." "Ah!" said Bunter. "I pass no comments," said Miss Westlock, "but you and me, Mr. Bunter, know how the world goes." ((1 'I suppose Mr. Urquhart stands to gain something when the old woman does peg out," suggested Hunter. "That's as may be; he's not a talker," said Hannah, "but it stands to reason he wouldn't be always giving up his time and tearing off to Westmorland for nothing. Though I wouldn't care myself to put my hand to money that's wickedly come by. It would not bring a blessing with it, Mr. Bunter." "It's easy talking, my girl, when you ain't likely to be put in the way of temptation," said Mrs. Pettican. "There's many great families in the Kingdom what never would a bin 'card of if somebody 'adn't bin a little easier in their ways than what we've bin brought up to. There's skelintons in a many cupboards if the truth was known." "Ah!" said Bunter, "I believe you. I've seen diamond necklaces and fur coats that should have been labelled Wages of Sin if deeds done in the dark were to be proclaimed upon the house-tops, Mrs. Pettican. And there are families that hold their heads high that wouldn't ever have existed but for some king or other taking his amusements on the wrong side of the blanket as the old saying goes." « "They say as some that was high up wasn't too high to take notice of old Mrs. Wrayburn in her young days," said Hannah, darkly. "Queen Victoria wouldn't never allow her to act before the Royal Family -- she knew too much about her goings-on." « An actress, was she?" And a very beautiful one, they say, though I can't rightly recollect what her stage name was," mused Mrs. Pettican. "It was a queer one, I know -- 'Yde Park, or somethink of that. This Wrayburn as she married, 'e was nobody jest to kiver up the scandal that's what he married 'im for. Two children she 'ad 'r-- but 'ose I would not take it upon me to say -- and they both died in the cholera, Which no doubt it was a judgment." « "That's not what Mr. Boyes called it," said Hannah, with a self-righteous sniff. "The devil took care of his own, that was his way of putting it." Ah! he talked careless," said Mrs. Pettican, "and no wonder, seeing the folks he lived with. But he'd a sobered down in time if he'd bin spared. A very pleasant way he 'ad with 'im when 'e liked. Come in here, he would, and chat upon one thing and another, very amusing-like." "You're too soft with the gentlemen, Mrs. Pettican," said Hannah. "Anyone as has taking ways and poor health is ewelambs to you." "So Mr. Boyes knew all about Mrs. Wrayburn?" "Oh, yes — it was all in the family, you see, and no doubt Mr. Urquhart would a told him more than he'd say to us. Which train did Mr. Urquhart say he was acomin' by, Hannah?" "He said dinner for half-past seven. That'll be the six-thirty, I should think." Mrs. Pettican glanced at the clock and Bunter, taking this as a hint, rose and made his farewells. "And I 'opes as you'll come again, Mr. Bunter," said the Cook, graciously. "The master makes no objections to respectable gentlemen visitors at tea-time. Wednesday 99 is my 'arf-day.: "Mine is Friday," added Hannah, "and every other Sunday. If you should be Evangelical, Mr. Bunter, the Rev. Crawford in Judd Street is a beautiful preacher. But maybe you'll be going out of town for Christmas." Mr. Bunter replied that that season would undoubtedly be spent at Duke's Denver, and departed in a shining halo of I vicarious splendour. CHAPTER X "Here you are, Peter," said Chief Inspector Parker, "and here is the lady you are anxious to meet. Mrs. Bulfinch, allow me to introduce Lord Peter Wimsey." "Pleased, I am sure," said Mrs. Bulfinch. She giggled, and dabbed her large, blonde face with powder. "Mrs. Bulfinch, before her union with Mr. Bulfinch, was the life and soul of the saloon bar at the Nine Rings in Grays Inn Road," said Mr. Parker, "and well known to all for her charm and wit." "Go on," said Mrs. Bulfinch, "you're a one, aren't you? Don't you pay no attention to him, your lordship. You know what these police fellows are." "Sad dogs," said Wimsey, shaking his head. "But I don't need his testimonials, I can trust my own eyes and ears, Mrs. Bulfinch, and I can only say that, if I had had the happiness to make your acquaintance before it was too late, it would have been my life-time's ambition to wipe Mr. Bulfinch's eye." "You're every bit as bad as he is," said Mrs. Bulfinch, highly gratified, "and what Bulfinch would say to you I don't know. Quite upset, he was, when the officer came round to ask me to pop along to the Yard. *I don't like it, Grade,' he says, 'we've always bin respectable in this house and no trouble with disorderlies nor drinks after hours, and once you get among them fellows you don't know the things you I may be asked.' 'Don't be so soft,' I tells [him, 'the boys all know me and they ;haven't got nothing against me, and if it's I just to tell them about the gentleman that [left the packet behind him at the Rings, I [haven't no objection to tell them, having ^nothing to reproach myself with. What'd [they think,' I said, 'if I refused to go? Ten I to one they'd think there was something funny about it.' 'Well,' he says, 'I'm coming with you.' 'Oh, are you?' I says, 'and how about the new barman you was going to engage this morning? For,' I said, 'serve in the jug and bottle I will not, never having been accustomed to it, so you can do as you like.' So I came away and left him to it. Mind you, I like him for it. I ain't saying nothing against Bulfinch, but police or no police, I reckon I know how to take care of myself." "Quite so," said Parker, patiently. "Mr. Bulfinch need feel no alarm. All we want you to do is to tell us, to the best of your recollection, about that young man you spoke of and help us to find the white-paper packet. You may be able to save an innocent person from being convicted, and I am sure your husband could not object to that." "Poor thing!" said Mrs. Bulfinch, "I'm sure when I read the account of the trial I said to Bulfinch —" "Just a moment. If you wouldn't mind beginning at the beginning, Mrs. Bulfinch, Lord Peter would understand better what you have to tell us." "Why, of course. Well, my lord, before I was married I was barmaid at the Nine Rings, as the Chief-Inspector says. Miss Montague I was then -- it's a better name than Bulfinch, and I was almost sorry to say good-bye to it, but there! a girl has to make a lot of sacrifices when she marries and one more or less is nothing to signify. I never worked ttyere but in the saloon bar, for I wouldn't undertake the four ale business, it / not being a refined neighbourhood, though there's a lot of very nice legal gentlemen drops in of an evening on the saloon side. Well, as I was saying, I was working there up to my jmarriage, which was last August Bank [Holiday, and I remember one evening a ^gentleman coming in --" "Could you remember the date, do you Ithink?" low." "That's "Not within a day or so I couldn't, for wouldn't wish to swear to a fib, but it wasn't far off the longest day, for I remember making that same remark to the gentleman for something to say, you near enough," said Parker. "Round about June 20th, or 21st, or something like that?" "That's right, as near as I can speak to it. And as to the time of night, that I can tell you — knowing how keen you 'tecs always are on the hands of the clock." Mrs. Bulfinch giggled again and looked archly round for applause. "There was a gentleman sitting there — I didn't know him, he was a stranger to the district — and he asked what was our closing hour and I told him 11 o'clock, and he said, 'Thank God! I thought I was going to be turned out at 10.30,' and I looked at the clock and said, 'Oh, you're all right, anyhow, sir; we always keep that clock a quarter of an hour fast.' The clock said twenty past, so I know it must have been five past ten really. So we got talking a bit about these prohibitionists and the way they had been trying it on again to get our licensing-hour altered to half-past ten, only we had a good friend on the Bench in Mr. Judkins, and while we was discussing it, I remember so well, the door was pushed open hurried-like and a young gentleman comes in, almost falls in, I might say, and he calls, 'Give me a double brandy, quick.' Well, I didn't like to serve him all at once, he looked so white and queer, I thought he'd had one or two over the eight already, and the boss was most particular about that sort of thing. Still, he spoke all right -- quite clear and not repeating himself nor nothing, and his eyes, though they did look a bit funny, weren't fixed-like, if you understand me. We get to size folks up pretty well in our business, you know. He sort of held on to {the bar, all scrunched up together and Jbent double, and he says, "Make it a stiff fone, there's a good girl, I'm feeling awful >ad.' The gentleman I'd been talking to, le says to him, 'Hold up,' he says, fwhat's the matter?' and the gentleman lys, 'I'm going to be ill.' And he puts his ids across his waistcoat like so!" Mrs. Bulfinch clasped her waist and >lled her big blue eyes dramatically. 'Well, then I see he wasn't drunk, so I ted him a double Martell with just a >lash of soda and he gulps it down, and tys, 'That's better.' And the other mtleman puts his arm round him and «< helps him to a seat. There was a good many other people in the bar, but they didn't notice much, being full of the racing news. Presently the gentleman asks me for a glass of water, and I fetched it to him, and he says: * Sorry if I frightened you, but I've just had a bad shock, and it must have gone to my inside. I'm subject to gastric trouble,' he says, 'and any worry or shock always affects my stomach. However,' he says, 'perhaps this will stop it.' And he takes out a white paper packet with some powder in it, and drops it into the glass of water and stirs it up with a fountain-pen and drinks it off." "Did it fizz or anything?" asked Wimsey. "No; it was just a plain powder, and it took a bit of a time to mix. He drank it off and said, That settles it,' or That'll settle it,' or something of that sort. And then he says, Thanks very much. I'm better now and I'd better get home in case it takes me again.' And he raised his hat — hejwas quite the gentleman — and off he goes." «1 'How much powder do you think he put in?" "Oh, a good dollop. He didn't measure it or anything, just shot it in out of the packet. Near a dessert spoonful it might have been." "And what happened to the packet?" prompted Parker. "Ah, there you are." Mrs. Bulfinch took a glance at Wimsey's face and seemed pleased with the effect she was producing. "We'd just got the last customer out -- about five past eleven, that would be, and George was locking the door, when I see something white on the seat. Somebody's handkerchief I thought it was, but when I picked it up, I see it was the paper packet. So I said to George, 'Hullo! the gentleman's left his medicine behind him.' So George asked what gentleman, and I told him, and he said, 'What is it?' and I looked, but the label had been torn off. It was just one of them chemist's packets, you know, with the ends turned up and the label stuck across, but there wasn't a bit of the label left." "You couldn't even see whether it had « (( been printed in black or in red?" Well, now." Mrs. Bulfinch considered. Well, no, I couldn't say that. Now you mention it, I do seem to recollect that there was something red about the packet, somewhere, but I can't clearly call it to mind. I wouldn't swear. I know there wasn't any name or printing of any kind, because I looked to see what it was." "You didn't try tasting it, I suppose?" "Not me. It might have been poison or something. I tell you, he was a funny looking customer." (Parker and Wimsey exchanged glances.) "Was that what you thought at the time?" enquired Wimsey, "or did it only occur to you later on -- after you'd read about the case, you know?" "I thought it at the time, of course," retorted Mrs. Bulfinch, snappishly. "Aren't I telling you that's why I didn't taste it? I said so to George at the time, what's more. Besides, if it wasn't poison, it might be 'snow' or something. 'Best not touch it,' that's what I said to George, and he said 'Chuck it in the fire.' But I wouldn't have that. The gentleman might have come back for it. So I stuck it up on the shelf behind the bar, where they keep the spirits, and never thought of it again from that day to yesterday, when your policeman came round about it." "It's been looked for there," said Parker, "but they can't seem to find it anywhere." "Well, I don't know about that. I put it there and I left the Rings in August, so what's gone with it I can't say. Daresay they threw it away when they were cleaning. Wait a bit, though — I'm wrong when I say I never thought about it again. I did just wonder about it when I read the report of the trial in the News of the World, and I said to George, *I wouldn't be surprised if that was the gentleman who came into the Rings one night and seemed so poorly — just fancy!' I said — just like that. And George said, 'Now don't you get fancies, Gracie my girl; you don't want to get mixed up in a police case.' George has always held his head high, you see." "It's a pity you didn't come forward with this story," said Parker, severely. «1 'Well, how was I to know it was important? The taxi-driver had seen him a few minutes afterwards and he was ill then, so the powder couldn't have had anything to do with it, if it was him, which I couldn't swear to. And anyhow, I didn't see about it till the trial was all over and finished with." * There will be a new trial, though," said Parker, "and you may have to give evidence at that." "You know where to find me," said Mrs. Bulfinch, with spirit. "I shan't run away." "We're very much obliged to you for coming now," added Wimsey, pleasantly. "Don't mention it," said the lady. "Is that all you want, Mr. Chief-Inspector?" "That's all at present. If we find the packet, we may ask you to identify it. And, by the way, it's advisable not to discuss these matters with your friends, Mrs. Bulfinch. Sometimes ladies get talking, and one thing leads to another, and in the end they remember incidents that never took place at all. You understand." "« artists who lived in Bloomsbury and an ideal existence, full of love and mghter and poverty, till somebody :indly poisoned the young man and left ie young woman inconsolable and jsionately resolved to avenge him. rimsey ground his teeth and went down Holloway Gaol, where he very nearly made a jealous exhibition of himself. Fortunately, his sense of humour came to the rescue when he had cross-examined his client to the verge of exhaustion and tears. "I'm sorry," he said; "the fact is, I'm most damnably jealous of this fellow Boyes. I oughtn't to be, but I am." "That's just it," said Harriet, "and you always would be." "And if I was, I shouldn't be fit to live with. Is that it?" "You would be very unhappy. Quite apart from all the other drawbacks." "But, look here," said Wimsey, "if you married me I shouldn't be jealous, because then I should know that you really liked me and all that." "You think you wouldn't be. But you would." "Should I? Oh, surely not. Why should I? It's just the same as if I married a widow. Are all second husbands jealous?" "I don't know. But it's not quite the same. You'd never really trust me, and we should be wretched." 'But ^damn it all," said Wimsey, "if <ks, you know, that's the sort of squit was. Wonderful, the rotters these jighbrow females will fall for. The whole >t of 'em ought to be poisoned like rats. >ook at the harm they do to the mntry." "But he was a very fine writer," protested Mrs. Featherstone, a lady in her ties, whose violently compressed figure iggested that she was engaged in a >etual struggle to compute her weight terms of the first syllables of her name ither than the last. "His books are >sitively Gallic in their audacity and restraint. Audacity is not rare — but that fperfect concision of style is a gift Iwhich —" 'Oh, if you like dirt," interrupted the Captain, rather rudely. "I wouldn't call it that," said Mrs. Featherstone. "He is frank, of course, and that is what people in this country will not forgive. It is part of our national hypocrisy. But the beauty of the writing puts it all on a higher plane." "Well, I wouldn't have the muck in the house," said the Captain, firmly. "I caught Hilda with it, and I said, 'Now you send that book straight back to the library.' I don't often interfere, but one must draw the line somewhere." "How did you know what it was like?" asked Wimsey, innocently. "Why, James Douglas' article in the Express was good enough for me," said Captain Bates. "The paragraphs he quoted were filthy, positively filthy." "Well, it's a good thing we've all read them," said Wimsey. "Forewarned is forearmed." "We owe a great debt of gratitude to the press," said the Dowager Duchess, "so kind of them to pick out all the plums for us and save the trouble of reading the books, don't you think, and such a joy for the poor dear people who can't afford seven-and-sixpence, or even a library 4 subscription, I suppose, though I'm sure that works out cheaply enough if one is a quick reader. Not that the cheap ones will take those books for I asked my maid, such a superior girl and so keen on improving her mind, which is more than I can say for most of my friends, but no doubt it is all due to free education for the people and I suspect her in my heart of voting labour though I never ask because I don't think it's fair, and besides, if I did, I couldn't very well take any notice of it, could I?" "Still, I don't suppose the young woman murdered him on that account," said her daughter-in-law. "From all accounts she was just as bad as he was." 'Oh, come," said Wimsey, "you can't [think that, Helen. Damn it, she writes [detective stories and in detective stories virtue is always triumphant. They're the [purest literature we have." The devil is always ready to quote (scripture when it pays him to do so," said [the younger Duchess, "and they say the {wretched woman's sales are going up by saps and bounds." 'It's my belief," said Mr. Harringay, «i "that the whole thing is a publicity stunt gone wrong." He was a large, jovial man, extremely rich and connected with the City. "You never know what these advertising fellows are up to." "Well, it looks like a case of hanging the goose that lays the golden eggs this time," said Captain Bates, with a loud laugh. "Unless Wimsey means to pull off one of his conjuring tricks." "I hope he does," said Miss Titterton. "I adore detective stories. I'd commute the sentence to penal servitude on condition that she turned out a new story every six months. It would be much more useful than picking oakum or sewing mail-bags for the post-office to mislay." "Aren't you being a bit previous?" suggested Wimsey, mildly. "She's not convicted yet." "But she will be next time. You can't fight facts, Peter." Of course not," said Captain Bates. The police know what they're about. They don't put people into the dock if there isn't something pretty shady about 'em," '* « <( Now this was a fearful brick, for it was not so many years since the Duke of Denver had himself stood his trial on a mistaken charge of murder. There was a ghastly silence, broken by the Duchess, who said icily: "Really, Captain Bates!" "What? eh? Oh, of course, I mean to say, I know mistakes do happen sometimes, but that's a very different thing. I mean to say, this woman, with no morals at all, that is, I mean —" "Have a drink, Tommy," said Lord Peter, kindly. "You aren't quite up to your usual standard of tact today." "No, but do tell us, Lord Peter," cried Mrs. Dimsworthy, "what the creature is like. Have you talked to her? I thought she had rather a nice voice, though she's as plain as a pancake." "Nice voice, Freakie? Oh, no," said Mrs. Featherstone. "I should have called it rather sinister. It absolutely thrilled me, I got shudders all the way down my spine. A genuine frisson. And I think she would be quite attractive, with those queer, smudgy eyes, if she were properly dressed. A sort of femme fatale, you know. Does she try to hypnotise you, Peter?" "I saw in the papers," said Miss Titterton, "that she had had hundreds of offers of marriage." "Out of one noose into the other," said Harringay, with his noisy laugh. "I don't think I should care to marry a murderess," said Miss Titterton, "especially one that's been trained on detective stories. One would be always wondering whether there was anything funny about the taste of the coffee." "Oh, these people are all mad," said Mrs. Dimsworthy. "They have a morbid longing for notoriety. It's like the lunatics who make spurious confessions and give themselves up for crimes they haven't committed." "A murderess might make quite a good wife," said Harringay. "There was Madeleine Smith, you know — she used arsenic too, by the way — she married somebody and lived happily to a respectable old age." "But did her husband live to a * respectable old age?" demanded Miss Titterton. "That's more to the point, isn't it?" "Once a poisoner, always a poisoner, 7 believe," said Mrs. Featherstone. "It's a passion that grows upon you — like drink or drugs." "It's the intoxicating sensation of power," said Mrs. Dimsworthy. "But, Lord Peter, do tell us —" * Peter!" said his mother, "I do wish [you'd go and see what's happened to {Gerald. Tell him his tea is getting cold. I jthink he's in the stables talking to Freddy [about thrush or cracked heels or {something, so tiresome the way horses are falways getting something the matter with Ithem. You haven't trained Gerald >roperly, Helen, he used to be quite mnctual as a boy. Peter was always the tiresome one, but he's becoming almost mman in his old age. It's that wonderful Iman of his who keeps him in order, really ja remarkable character and so intelligent, {quite one of the old sort, you know, a jperfect autocrat, and such manners too. [He would be worth thousands to an American millionaire, most impressive, I wonder Peter isn't afraid he'll give warning one of these days, but I really believe he is positively attached to him, Hunter attached to Peter, I mean, though the other way on would be true too, I'm sure Peter pays more attention to his opinion than he does to mine." Wimsey had escaped, and was by now on his way to the stables. He met Gerald, Duke of Denver, returning, with Freddy Arbuthnot in tow. The former received the Dowager's message with a grin. "Got to turn up, I suppose," he said. "I wish nobody had ever invented tea. Ruins your nerves and spoils your appetite for dinner." "Beastly sloppy stuff," agreed the Hon. Freddy. "I say, Peter, I've been wanting to get hold of you." "Same here," said Wimsey, promptly. "I'm feelin' rather exhausted with conversation. Let's wander through the billiard-room and build our constitutions up before we face the barrage." "Today's great thought," said Freddy, enthusiastically. He pattered happily after Wimeev intn the billiard-room, and flung himself down in a large chair. "Great bore, Christmas, isn't it? All the people one hates most gathered together in the name of goodwill and all that." "Bring a couple of whiskies," said Wimsey to the footman. "And, James, if anybody asks for Mr. Arbuthnot or me, you rather think we have gone out. Well, Freddy, here's luck! Has anything transpired, as the journalists say?" "Pve been sleuthing like stink on the tracks of your man," said Mr. Arbuthnot. "Really, don't you know, I shall soon be qualified to set up in your line of business. Our financial column, edited by Uncle puthie -- that sort of thing. Friend rquhart has been very careful, though, ound to be -- respectable family lawyer d all that. But I saw a man yesterday ho knows a fellow who had it from a happie that said Urquhart had been ipping himself a bit recklessly off the eep end." Are you sure, Freddy?" Well, not to say sure. But this man, ou see, owes me one, so to speak, for ving warned him off the Megatherium « «i before the band began to play, and he thinks, if he can get hold of the chappie that knows, not the fellow that told him, you understand, but the other one, that he might be able to get something out of him, don't you see, especially if I was able to put this other chappie in the way of something or the other, what?" "And no doubt you have secrets to sell." "Oh, well, I daresay I could make it worth this other chappie's while, because I've got an idea, through this other fellow that my bloke knows, that the chappie is rather up against it, as you might say, through being caught short on some Airways stock, and if I was to put him in touch with Goldberg, don't you see, it might get him out of a hole and so on. And Goldberg will be all right, because, don't you see, he's a cousin of old Levy's, who was murdered, you know, and all these Jews stick together like leeches and as a matter of fact, I think it's very fine of them." "But what has old Levy got to do with it?" asked Wimsey, his rriind running over le incidents in that half-forgotten rder-episode. "Well, as a matter of fact," said the ton. Freddy, a little nervously, "I've -- -- done the trick as you might say. ichel Levy is -- er, in fact -- going to ;ome Mrs. Freddy and all that sort of ig." 'The devil she is," said Wimsey, «1 iging the bell. "Tremendous congratters lid all that. It's been a long time working hasn't it?" 'Why, yes," said Freddy. "Yes, it has. >u see, the trouble was that I was a iristian -- at least, I was christened and that, though I pointed out I wasn't at a good one, except, of course, that one leeps up the family pew and turns out on "hristmas Day and so on. Only it seems ley didn't mind that so much as my being' Gentile. Well that, of course, is past >rayin' for. And then there was the lifficulty about the kids -- if any. But I explained that I didn't mind what they mnted them as -- and I don't, you :now, because, as I was saying, it would >e all to the little beggars' advantage to be in with the Levy and Goldberg crowd, especially if the boys were to turn out anything in the financial way. And then I rather got round Lady Levy by sayin' I had served nearly seven years for Rachel — that was rather smart, don't you think?" "Two more whiskies, James," said Lord Peter. "It was brilliant, Freddy. How did you come to think of it?" "In church," said Freddy, "at Diana Rigby's wedding. The bride was fifty minutes late and I had to do something, and somebody had left a Bible in the pew. I saw that — I say, old Laban was a bit of a tough, wasn't he? — and I said to myself, Til work that off next time I call,' and so I did, and the old lady was uncommonly touched by it." "And the long and the short of it is, you're fixed up," said Wimsey. "Well, cheerio, here's to it. Am I best man, Freddy, or do you bring it off at the Synagogue?" "Well, yes — it is to be at the Synagogue — I had to agree to that," said Freddy, "but I believe some sort of bridegroom's friend comes into it. You'll stand by me, old bean, won't you? You keep your hat on, don't forget." "I'll bear it in mind," said Wimsey, "and Bunter will explain the procedure to me. He's bound to know. He knows everything. But look here, Freddy, you won't forget about this little enquiry, will you?" "I won't, old chap -- upon my word I won't. I'll let you know the very second I hear anything. But I really think you may count on there being something in it." Wimsey found some consolation in this. At any rate, he so far pulled himself together as to be the life and soul of the rather restrained revels at Duke's Denver. The Duchess Helen, indeed, observed rather acidly to the Duke that Peter was surely getting too old to play the buffoon, and that it would be better if he took things seriously and settled down. "Oh, I dunno," said the Duke, "Peter's a weird fish -- you never know what he's thinkin' about. He pulled me out of the soup once and I'm not going to interfere with him. You leave him alone, Helen. 99 Lady Mary Wimsey, who had arrived late on Christmas Eve, took another view of the matter. She marched into her younger brother's bedroom at 2 o'clock on the morning of Boxing Day. There had been dinner and dancing and charades of the most exhausting kind. Wimsey was sitting thoughtfully over the fire in his dressing gown. "I say, old Peter," said Lady Mary, "you're being a bit fevered, aren't you? Anything up?" "Too much plum-pudding," said Wimsey, "and too much county. I'm a martyr, that's what I am -- burning in brandy to make a family holiday." "Yes, it's ghastly, isn't it? But how's life? I haven't seen you for an age. You've been away such a long time." "Yes -- and you seem very much taken up with this house-decorating job you're running." "One must do something. I get rather sick of being aimless, you know." "Yes. I say, Mary, do you ever see anything of old Parker these days?1 Lady Mary stared into the fire. »» "«i 'Have you? He's a very decent sort. Reliable, homespun -- that sort of thing. Not amusing, exactly." "A little solid." "As you say -- a little solid." Wimsey lit a cigarette. "I should hate anything supsettin' to happen to Parker. He'd take jit hard. I mean to say, it wouldn't be fair Jto muck about with his feelin's and so Ion." Mary laughed. "Worried, Peter?" "N-no. But I'd rather like him to have |fair play." ttt «< 'Well, Peter -- I can't very well say yes |or no till he asks me, can I?" 'Can't you?" 'Well, not to him. It would upset his ideas of decorum, don't you think?" 51 suppose it would. But it would >robably upset them just as much if he id ask you. He would feel that the mere idea of hearing a butler announce 'Chief >etective-Inspector and Lady Mary Parker' rould have something shocking about it." I've had dinner with him twice, when I was in town." once or l» » « «1 « "It's stalemate, then, isn't it? 'You could stop dining with him/ fl could do that, of course." 'And the mere fact that you don't -- I see. Would it be any good if I demanded to know his intentions in the true Victorian manner?" "Why this sudden thirst for getting your family off your hands, old man? Peter -- nobody's being horrible to you, are they?" "No, no. I'm just feeling rather like a benevolent uncle, that's all. Old age creeping on. That passion for being useful which attacks the best of us when we're getting past our prime." "Like me with the house-decorating. I designed these pajamas, by the way. Don't you think they're rather entertaining? But I expect Chief-Inspector Parker prefers the old-fashioned night-gown, like Dr. Spooner or whoever it was." "That would be a wrench," said Wimsey. "Never mind. I'll be brave and devoted. Here and now I cast off my pajamas for ever!" «1 No, no," said Wimsey, "not here and now. Respect a brother's feelings. Very well. I am to tell my friend Charles Parker, that if he will abandon his natural modesty and propose, you will abandon your pajamas and say yes." "It will be a great shock for Helen, Peter." "Blast Helen. I daresay it won't be the worst shock she'll get." "Peter, you're plotting something devilish. All right. If you want me to administer the first shock and let her down by degrees -- I'll do it." "Right-no!" said Wimsey, casually. Lady Mary twisted one arm about his neck and bestowed on him one of her rare isisterly caresses. Pc< You're a decent old idiot," she said, and you look played-out. Go to bed." "Go to blazes," said Lord Peter, Amiably. CHAPTER XIII Miss Murchison felt a touch of excitement in her well-regulated heart, as she rang the bell of Lord Peter's flat. It was not caused by the consideration of his title or his wealth or his bachelorhood, for Miss Murchison had been a business woman all her life, and was accustomed to visiting bachelors of all descriptions without giving a second thought to the matter. But his note had been rather exciting. Miss Murchison was thirty-eight, and plain. She had worked in the same financier's office for twelve years. They had been good years on the whole, and it was not until the last two that she had even begun to realise that the brilliant financier who juggled with so many spectacular undertakings was juggling for his life under circumstances of increasing difficulty. As the pace grew faster, he added egg after egg to those which were already spinning in the air. There is a limit to the number of eggs which can be spun by human hands. One day an egg slipped and smashed — then another — then a whole omelette of eggs. The juggler fled from the stage and escaped abroad, his ichief assistant blew out his brains, the [audience booed, the curtain came down, J'i land Miss Murchison, at 37, was out of a job. She had put an advertisement in the >apers and had answered many others, lost people appeared to want their jcretaries young and cheap. It was iscouraging. Then her own advertisement had >rought an answer, from a Miss Climpson, rtio kept a typing bureau. It was not what she wanted, but she rent. And she found that it was not quite typing bureau after all, but something lore interesting. Lord Peter Wimsey, mysteriously at the back of it all, had been abroad when Miss Murchison entered the "Cattery," and she had never seen him till a few weeks ago. This would be the first time she had actually spoken to him. An odd-looking person, she thought, but people said he had brains. Anyhow — The door was opened by Bunter, who seemed to expect her and showed her at once into a sitting-room lined with bookshelves. There were some fine prints on the walls, an Aubusson carpet, a grand piano, a vast Chesterfield and a number of deep and cosy chairs, upholstered in brown leather. The curtains were drawn, a wood-fire blazed on the hearth, and before it stood a table, with a silver tea-service whose lovely lines were delightful to the eye. As she entered, her employer uncoiled himself from the depths of an armchair, put down a black-letter folio which he had been studying and greeted her in the cool, husky and rather languid tones which she ^had already heard in Mr. Urquhart's office. <<1 Frightfully good of you to come round, Miss Murchison. Beastly day, isn't it? I'm sure you want your tea. Can you eat crumpets? Or would you prefer something more up-to-date?" * Thanks," said Miss Murchison, as Bunter hovered obsequiously at her elbow, "I like crumpets very much." "Oh, good! Well, Bunter, we'll struggle with the teapot ourselves. Give Miss Murchison another cushion and then you can toddle off. Back at work, I suppose? How's our Mr. Urquhart?" "He's all right." Miss Murchison had never been a chatty girl. "There's one thing I wanted to tell you --" "Plenty of time," said Wimsey. "Don't spoil your tea." He waited on her with a kind of anxious courtesy which pleased tier. She expressed admiration of the big bronze chrysanthemums heaped here and ere about the room. "Oh! I'm glad you like them. My riends say they give a feminine touch to e place, but Bunter sees to it, as a i» atter of fact. They make a splash of lour and all that, don't you think?' "The books look masculine enough." "Oh, yes -- they're my hobby, you know. Books -- and crime, of course. But crime's not very decorative, is it? I don't care about collecting hangmen's ropes and murderers' overcoats. What are you to do with 'em? Is the tea all right? I ought to have asked you to pour out, but it always seems to me rather unfair to invite a person and then make her do all the work. What do you do when you're not working, by the way? Do you keep a secret passion for anything?" ' "I go to concerts," said Miss Murchison. "And when there isn't a concert I put something , on the gramophone." "Musician?" "No -- never could afford to learn properly. I ought to have been, I daresay. But there was more money in being a secretary." CI suppose so." 'Unless one is absolutely first-class, and I should never have been that. And third class musicians are a nuisance." "They have a rotten time, too," said « «i Wimsey. "I hate to see them in cinemas, poor beasts, playing the most ghastly tripe, sandwiched in with snacks of Mendelssohn and torn-off gobbets of the 'Unfinished.' Have a sandwich. Do you like Bach? or only the Moderns?" He wriggled on to the piano stool. "I'll leave it to you," said Miss Murchison, rather surprised. "I feel rather like the Italian Concerto |this evening. It's better on the harpsichord, fbut I haven't got one here. I find Bach $ood for the brain. Steadying influence id all that." He played the Concerto through, and len, after a few seconds' pause went on to one of the "Forty-eight." He played fell, and gave a curious impression of mtrolled power, which, in a man so Ilight and so fantastical in manner, was lexpected and even a little disquieting. rhen he had finished, he said, still sitting >t the piano: 'Did you make the enquiry about the ^writer?" 'Yes; it was bought new three years «i (C1 50. » <<4 'Good. I gather, by the way, that you are probably right about Urquhart's connection with the Megatherium Trust. That was a very helpful observation of yours. Consider yourself highly commended." (f Thank you." « 'Anything fresh?" «1 'No -- except that the evening after you called at Mr. Urquhart's office, he stayed on a long time after we had gone, typing something." Wimsey sketched an arpeggio with his right hand and demanded: "How do you know how long he stayed and what he was doing if you had all gone?" "You said you wanted to know of anything, however small, that was fn the least unusual. I thought it might be unusual for him to stay on by himself, so I walked up and down Princeton Street and round Red Lion Square till half past seven. Then I saw Jiim put the light out and go home. Next morning I noticed that some papers I had left just inside my typewriter cover had been disturbed. So I » concluded that he had been typing.' "Perhaps the charwoman disturbed them?" "Not she. She never disturbs the dust, let alone the cover." Wimsey nodded. "You have the makings of a first-class sleuth, Miss Murchison. Very well. In that case, our little job will have to be undertaken. Now, look here -- you quite understand that I'm going to ask you to do something illegal?" « "Yes, I understand." «i 'And you don't mind?" 'No. I imagine that if I'm taken up you |will pay any necessary costs/ tit 'Certainly." « » l» 'And if I go to prison?' "I don't think it will come to that, "here's a slight risk, I admit -- that is, if i'm wrong about what I think is happening that you might be brought up for ittempted theft or for being in possession of safebreaking tools, but that is the most iat could happen." "Oh! well, it's all in the game, I suppose." "You mean that?" "Yes." "Splendid. Well — you know that deed-box you brought in to Mr. Urquhart's room the day I was there?" "Yes, the one marked Wrayburn." "Where is it kept? In the outer office, where you could get hold of it?" "Oh, yes — on a shelf with a lot of others." "Good. Would it be possible for you to get left alone in the office any day for, say half an hour?" "Well — at lunch-time I'm supposed to go out at half-past twelve and come back at half-past one. Mr. Pond goes out then, but Mr. Urquhart sometimes comes back. I couldn't be certain that he wouldn't pop out on me. And it would look funny if I wanted to stay on after four-thirty, I expect. Unless I pretended I had made a mistake and wanted to stay and put it right. I could do that. I might come extra early in the morning when the charwoman is there — or would it matter her seeing me?" . % "It wouldn't matter very much," said Wimsey, thoughtfully. "She'd probably think you had legitimate business with the box. I'll leave it to you to choose the time." "But what am I to do? Steal the box?" "Not quite. Do you know how to pick a lock?" "Not in the least, I'm afraid." "I often wonder what we go to school for," said Wimsey. "We never seem to [learn anything really useful. I can pick Jquite a pretty lock myself, but, as we [haven't much time and as you'll need some rather intensive training, I think I'd >etter take you to an expert. Should you dnd putting your coat on and coming round with me to see a friend?" "Not at all. I should be delighted." "He lives in the Whitechapel Road, but lie's a very pleasant fellow, if you can Overlook his religious opinions. Personally, find them rather refreshing. Bunter! Get a taxi, will you?" On the way to the East End, Wimsey jisted upon talking music — rather to liss Murchison's disquietude; she began think there was something a little sinister in this pointed refusal to discuss the object of their journey. "By the way," she ventured, interrupting something Wimsey was saying about fugal form, "this person we are going to see -- has he a name?" "Now you mention it, I believe he has, but he's never called by it. It's Rumm." "Not very, perhaps, if he -- er -- gives lessons in lock-picking." SI mean, his name's Rumm." 'Oh; what is it then?" 'Dash it! I mean, Rumm is his name." 'Oh! I beg your pardon." 'But he doesn't care to use it, now that he is a total abstainer." "Then what does one call him?" C7 call him Bill," said Wimsey, as the taxi drew up at the entrance to a narrow court, "but when he was at the head of his profession, they called him * Blindfold Bill.' He was a very great man in his time." Paying off the taxi-man (who had obviously taken them for welfare-workers till he saw^the size of his tip, and now did not know what to make of them), «i «4 «1 <ou." "Daddy says 'J &nd yoidosi t-EsmeraUk] '^f the tumblers. "Lord!" said Bill -- this time with no fcligious intention -- "wot a cracksman m'd a-made, if you'd a-given your mind it -- which the Lord in His mercy to-bid you should!" "Too much work in that life for , Bill," said Wimsey. "Dash it! I ou, Bill,' ses 'e, 'and Fd like for ter give you this little sooveneer.' " "Bill, Bill," said Wimsey, shaking a reproachful finger, "I'm afraid this wasn't honestly come by." 'Well, sir, if I knowed the owner I'd 'and it over to 'im with the greatest of [pleasure. It's quite good, you see. Sam put |the soup in at the 'inges and it blowed the 'ole front clean off, lock and all. It's tall, but it's a real beauty -- new pattern to me, that is. But I mastered it," said Bill, dth unregenerate pride, "in an hour or two. » lost it that time." He turned the knob back and started over again. By the time the trotters arrived, Miss Murchison had acquired considerable facility with the more usual types of lock and a greatly enhanced respect for burglary as a profession. "And don't you let yourself be 'urried, miss," was BilPs final injunction, "else you'll leave scratches on the lock and do yourself no credit. Lovely bit of work, that, ain't it, Lord Peter, sir?" "Beyond me, I'm afraid," said Wimsey, with a laugh. "Practice," said Bill, "that's all it is. If you'd a-started early enough you'd a-been a beautiful workman." He sighed. "There ain't many of 'em now-a-days — glory be! — that can do a real artistic job. It fair goes to my 'eart to see a elegant bit o' stuff like that blowed all to bits with gelignite. Wot's gelignite? Any fool can 'andle it as doesn't mind makin' a blinkin' great row. Brutal, I calls it." "Now, don't you get 'ankerin' back after them things, Bill," said Mrs. Rumm, reprovingly. "Come along, do, now and eat yer supper. Ef anybody's goin' ter do sech a wicked thing as breakin' safes, wot do it matter whether it's done artistic or inartistic?" "Ain't that jest like a woman? — beggin' your pardon, miss." "Well, you know it's true," said Mrs. Rumm. "I know those trotters look very artistic," said Wimsey, "and that's quite enough for me." The trotters having been eaten, and "Nazareth" duly sung, to the great admiration of the Rumm family, the evening closed pleasantly with the performance of a hymn, and Miss Murchison found herself walking up the Whitechapel Road, with a bunch of picklocks in her pocket and some surprising items of knowledge in her mind. "You make some very amusing acquaintances, Lord Peter." "Yes — rather a jape, isn't it? But Blindfold Bill is one of the best. I found him on my premises one night and struck up a sort of an alliance with him. Took lessons from him and all that. He was a bit shy at first, but he got converted by another friend of mine — it's a long story — and the long and short of it was, he got hold of this locksmith business, and is doing very well at it. Do you feel quite competent about locks now?" "I think so. What am I to look for when I get the box open?" "Well," said Wimsey, "the point is this. Mr. Urquhart showed me what purported to be the draft of a will made five years ago by Mrs. Wrayburn. I've written down the gist of it on a bit of paper for you. Here it is. Now the snag about it is that that draft was typed on a machine which, as you tell me, was bought new from the makers only three years ago." "Do you mean that's what he was typing that evening he stayed late at the office?" "It looks like it. Now, why? If he had the original draft, why not show me that? Actually, there was no need for him to show it to me at all, unless it was to mislead me about something. Then, "I though he said he had the thing at home, and must have known he had it there, he pretended to search for it in Mrs. Wrayburn's box. Again, why? To make me think that it was already in existence when I called. The conclusion I drew is that, if there is a will, it's not along the lines of the one he showed me." «1 'It looks rather like that, certainly." 'What I want you to look for is the real will -- either the original or the copy ought to be there. Don't take it away, but try to memorise the chief points fin it, especially the names of the chief llegatee or legatees and of the residuary pegatee. Remember that the residuary legatee gets everything which isn't specifically left to somebody else, or lything which falls in by a legatee's lying before the testatrix. I specially want know whether anything was left to *hilip Boyes or if any mention of the loyes family is made in the will. Failing a there might be some other interesting locument, such as a secret trust, istructing the executor to dispose of the loney in some special way. In short, I want particulars of any document which may seem to be of interest. Don't waste too much time making notes. Carry the provisions in your head if you can and note them down privately when you get away from the office. And be sure you don't leave those skeleton keys about for people to find." Miss Murchison promised to observe these instructions, and, a taxi coming up at the moment, Wimsey put her into it and sped her to her destination. CHAPTER XIV Mr. Norman Urquhart glanced at the clock, which stood at 4.15, and called through the open door: 'Are those affidavits nearly ready, Miss IMurchison?" "I am just on the last page, Mr. Jrquhart." 'Bring them in as soon as you've finished. They ought to go round to tanson's tonight." "Yes, Mr. Urquhart." Miss Murchison galloped noisily over ie keys, slamming the shift-lever over with lecessary violence and causing Mr. *ond once more to regret the intrusion of smale clerks. She completed her page, ornamented the foot of it with a rattling row of fancy lines and dots, threw over the release, spun the roller, twitching the foolscap sheets from under it in vicious haste, flung the carbons into the basket, shuffled the copies into order, slapped them vigorously on all four edges to bring them into symmetry, and bounced with them into the inner office. "I haven't had time to read them through," she announced. "Very well," said Mr. Urquhart. Miss Murchison retired, shutting the door after her. She gathered her belongings together, took out a hand-mirror and unashamedly powdered her rather large nose, stuffed a handful of odds-and-ends into a bulging hand-bag, pushed some papers under her typewriter cover ready for the next day, jerked her hat from the peg and crammed it on her head, tucking wisps of hair underneath it with vigorous and impatient fingers. Mr. Urquhart's bell rang — twice.-. "Oh, bother!" said Miss Murchison with heightened colour. She snatched the hat off again, and answered the summons. "Miss Murchison," said Mr. Urquhart, with an expression of considerable annoyance, "do you know that you have left out a whole paragraph on the first page of this?" Miss Murchison flushed still more deeply. "Oh, have I? Pm very sorry." Mr. Urquhart held up a document resembling in bulk that famous one of I which it was said that there was not truth [enough in the world to fill so long an {affidavit. 'It is very annoying," he said. "It is Ithe longest and most important of the fthree, and is urgently required first thing tomorrow morning." "I can't think how I could have made mch a silly mistake," muttered Mss [urchison. "I will stay on this evening id re-type it." Tm afraid you will have to. It is mfortunate, as I shall not be able to look It through myself, but there is nothing else k> be done. Please check it carefully this time, and see that Hanson's have it before ten o'clock tomorrow." "Yes, Mr. Urquhart. I will be extremely careful. I am very sorry indeed. I will make sure that it is quite correct and take it round myself." "Very well, that will do," said Mr. Urquhart. "Don't let it happen again." Miss Murchison picked up the papers and came out, looking flustered. She dragged the cover off the typewriter with much sound and fury, jerked out the desk drawers till they slammed against the drawer-stops, shook the top-sheet, carbons and flimsies together as a terrier shakes a rat, and attacked the machine tempestuously. Mr. Pond, who had just locked his desk, and was winding a silk scarf about his throat, looked at her in mild astonishment. "Have you some more typing to do tonight, Miss Murchison?" "Got to do the whole bally thing again," said Miss Murchison. "Left out a paragraph on page one -- it would be page one, of course -- and he wants the triD§ round at Hanson's by 10 o'clock.' » Mr. Pond groaned slightly and shook his head. "Those machines make you careless," he reproved her. "In the old days, clerks thought twice about making foolish mistakes, when it meant copying the whole document out again by hand." "Glad I didn't live then," said Miss Murchison, shortly. "One might as well have been a galley-slave." "And we didn't knock off at half-past four, either," said Mr. Pond. "We worked in those days." "You may have worked longer," said Miss Murchison, "but you didn't get through as much in the time." 'We worked accurately and neatly," |said Mr. Pond, with emphasis, as Miss fMurchison irritably disentangled two keys rhich had jammed together under her lasty touch. Mr. Urquhart's door opened and the retort on the typist's lips was silenced. He said good-night and went out. Mr. Pond followed him. *I suppose you will have finished before ie cleaner goes, Miss Murchison," he said. "If not, please remember to extinguish the light and to hand the key to Mrs. Hodges in the basement." "Yes, Mr. Pond. Goodnight." "Goodnight." His steps pattered through the entrance, sounded again loudly as he passed the window, and died away in the direction of Brownlow Street. Miss Murchison continued typing till she calculated that he was safely on the tube at Chancery Lane. Then she rose, with a quick glance round her and approached a higher tier of shelves, stacked with black deed-boxes, each of which bore the name of a client in bold white letters. wrayburn was there, all right, but had mysteriously shifted its place. This in itself was unaccountable. She clearly remembered having replaced it, just before Christmas, on top of the pile mortimer -- SCROGGINS -- LORD COOTE -- DOLBY BROS. and wingfield; and here it was, on the day after Boxing Day, at the bottom j>f a pile, heaped over knd kept down by BODGERS -- SIR J. PENKRIDGE -- FLATSBY & * COATEN -- TRUBODY LTD. and UNIVERSAL bone trust. Somebody had been springcleaning, apparently, over the holidays, and Miss Murchison thought it improbable that it was Mrs. Hodges. It was tiresome, because all the shelves were full, and it would be necessary to lift down all the boxes and stand them somewhere before she could get out wrayburn. And Mrs. Hodges would be in soon, and though Mrs. Hodges didn't really matter, it might look odd . . . Miss Murchison pulled the chair from her desk (for the shelf was rather high) and, standing on it, lifted down universal bone trust. It was heavyish, and the chair (which was-of the revolving kind, and not the modern type with one spindly leg and a stiffly sprung back, which butts you in the lower spine and keeps you up to your job) wobbled unsteadily, as she carefully lowered the box and balanced it on the narrow top of the cupboard. She reached up again and took down trubody ltd., and placed it on bone trust. She reached up for the third time and seized flatsby & coaten. As she stooped with it a step sounded in the doorway and an astonished voice said behind her: "Are you looking for something, Miss Murchison?" Miss Murchison started so violently that the treacherous chair swung through a quarter-turn, nearly shooting her into Mr. Pond's arms. She came down awkwardly, still clasping the black deed-box. "How you startled me, Mr. Pond! I thought you had gone." "So I had," said Mr. Pond, "but when I got to the Underground I found I had left a little parcel behind me. So tiresome — I had to come back for it. Have you seen it anywhere? A little round jar, done up in brown paper." Miss Murchison set flatsby & coaten on the seat of the chair and gazed about her. "It doesn't seem to be in my desk," said Mr. Pond. "Dear, dear, I shall be so late. And I can't go without it, because it's wanted for dinner — in fact, it's a little jar of caviare. We have guests tonight. Now, where can I have put it?" "Perhaps you put it down when you washed your hands," suggested Miss Murchison, helpfully. "Well now, perhaps I did." Mr. Pond fussed out and she heard the door of the little lavabo in the passage open with a loud creak. It suddenly occurred to her that she had left her handbag open on her desk. Suppose the skeleton keys were visible. She darted towards the bag, just as Mr. Pond returned in triumph. "Much obliged to you for your ^suggestion, Miss Murchison. It was there [all the time. Mrs. Pond would have been jo much upset. Well, good-night again." te turned towards the door. "Oh, by the ray, were you looking for something?" 'I was looking for a mouse," replied [iss Murchison with a nervous giggle. "I ras just sitting working when I saw it run long the top of the cupboard and -- er up the wall behind those boxes." 'Dirty little beasts," said Mr. Pond, I'the place is overrun with them. I have >ften said we ought to have a cat here. No lope of catching it now, though. You're lot afraid of mice apparently?" 'No," said Miss Murchison, holding ter eyes, by a strenuous physical effort, <«] o» Miss longer. * 'Rotten for them," said Murchison. "They were very graceful in appearance," said Mr. Pond. "Allow me to assist you in replacing those boxes." "You will miss your train," said Miss Murchison. "I have missed it already," replied Mr. Pond, glancing at his watch. "I shall have to take the 5.30." He politely picked up flatsby & coaten and climbed perilously with it in his hands to the unsteady seat of the rotatory chair. "It's extremely kind of you," said^Miss Murchison, watching him as he restored it to its place. "Not at all. If you would kindly hand n Mr. Pond's face. If the skeleton keys were -- as it seemed to her they must be -- indecently exposing their spidery anatomy on her desk, it would be madness to look in that direction. "No -- in your days I suppose all women were afraid of mice." "Yes, they were," admitted Mr. Pond, "but then, of course, their garments were me up the others --" Miss Murchison handed him trubody LTD., and UNIVERSAL BONE TRUST. "There!" Pond, completing the pile and dusting his hands. "Now let us hope the mouse has gone for good. I will speak to Mrs. Hodges about procuring a suitable kitten." said Mr. 99 said Mr. "That would be a very good idea, Miss Murchison. "Goodnight, Pond." "Good-night, Miss Murchison." His footsteps pattered down the passage, sounded again more loudly ; beneath the window and for the second itime died away in the direction of [Brownlow Street. "Whew!" said Miss Murchison. She (darted to her desk. Her fears had deceived ter. The bag was shut and the keys invisible. She pulled her chair back to its place id sat down as a clash of brooms and >ails outside announced the arrival of Irs. Hodges. 5Ho!" said Mrs. Hodges, arrested on the threshold at sight of the lady clerk industriously typing away, "beg your pardon, miss, but I didn't know as how anybody was here." "Sorry, Mrs. Hodges, I've got a little bit of work to finish. But you carry on. Don't mind me." "That's all right, miss," said Mrs. Hodges, "I can do Mr. Partridge's office fust." "Well, if it's all the same to you," said Miss Murchison. "I've just got to type a few pages and — er — make a precis — notes you know, of some documents for Mr. Urquhart." Mrs. Hodges nodded and vanished again. Presently a loud bumping noise overhead proclaimed her presence in Mr. Partridge's office. Miss Murchison waited no longer. She dragged her chair to the shelves again, took down swiftly, one after the other, BONE TRUST, TRUBODY LTD., FLATSBY & COATEN, SIR J. PENKRIDGE and BODGERS. Her heart beat heavily as at last she seized wrayburn and carried it across to her desk. She opened her bag and shook out its contents. The bunch of picklocks clattered upon the desk, mixed up with a handkerchief, a powder compact and a pocket-comb. The thin and shining steel barrels seemed to burn her fingers. As she picked the bunch over, looking for the most suitable implement, there came a loud rap at the window. She wheeled round, terrified. There was nothing there. Thrusting the picklocks into the pocket of her sports-coat, she tiptoed across and looked out. In the lamplight she observed three small boys engaged in climbing the iron railings which guard the sacred areas of Bedford Row. The foremost child saw her and gesticulated, pointing downwards. Miss Murchison waved her hand and cried, "Be off with you!" The child shouted something unintelligible and pointed again. Putting two and two together, Miss Murchison deduced from the rap at the window, the gesture and the cry, that a valuable ball had fallen into the area. She shook her head with severity and returned to her task. But the incident had reminded her that the windows had no blinds and that, under the glare of the electric light, her movements were as visible to anybody in the street as though she stood on a lighted stage. There was no reason to suppose that Mr. Urquhart or Mr. Pond was about, but her uneasy conscience vexed her. Moreover, if a policeman should pass by, would he not be able to recognise picklocks a hundred yards away? She peered out again. Was it her agitated fancy, or was that a sturdy form in dark blue emerging from Hand Court? Miss Murchison fled in alarm and, snatching up the deed-box, carried it bodily into Mr. Urquhart's private office. Here, at least, she could not be overlooked. If anybody came in — even Mrs. Hodges — her presence might cause surprise but she would hear them coming and be warned in advance. Her hands were cold and shaking, and she was not in the best condition to profit by Blindfold Bill's instructions. She d^w a few deep breaths. She had been told not to hurry herself. Very well, then, she would not. She chose a key with care and slipped it into the lock. For years, as it seemed to her, she scratched about aimlessly, till at length she felt the spring press against the hooked end. Pushing and lifting steadily with one hand, she introduced her second key. She felt the lever move — in another moment there was a sharp click and the lock was open. There were not a great many papers in the box. The first document was a long list of securities, endorsed "Securities deposited with Lloyd's Bank." Then came the copies of some title-deeds, of which the originals were similarly deposited. Then came a folder filled with correspondence. Some of this consisted of letters, from Mrs. Wrayburn herself, the latest letter being dated five years previously. In addition there were letters from tenants, bankers and stockbrokers, with copies of the replies written from the office and signed by Norman Urquhart. Miss Murchison hastened impatiently ^through all this. There was no sign of a iwill or copy of a will — not even of the fdubious draft that the solicitor had shown to Wimsey. Two papers only now remained at the bottom of the box. Miss Murchison picked up the first. It was a Power of Attorney, dated January 1925, giving Norman Urquhart full powers to act for Mrs. Wrayburn. The second was thicker and tied neatly with red tape. Miss Murchison slipped this off and unfolded the document. It was a Deed of Trust, making over the whole of Mrs. Wrayburn's property to Norman Urquhart, in trust for herself, and providing that he should pay into her current account, from the estate, a certain fixed annual sum for personal expenses. The deed was dated July 1920 and attached to it was a letter, which Miss Murchison hastily read through: Appleford, Windle. 15th May, 1920. My dear Norman, Thank you very much, my dear boy, for your birthday letter and the pi£tty scarf. It is good of you to remember your old aunt so faithfully. It has occurred to me that, now that I am over eighty years old, it is time that I put my business into your hands entirely. You and your father have managed very well for me all these years, and you have, of course, always very properly consulted me before taking any step with regard to investments. But I am getting such a very old -woman now that I am quite out of touch with the modern world, and I cannot pretend that my opinions are of any real value. I am a tired old woman, too, and though you always explain everything most clearly, I find the writing of letters a gene and a burden to me at my advanced age. So I have determined to put my property in Trust with you for my lifetime, so that you may have full power to handle everything according to your own discretion, without having to consult me every time. And also, though I am strong and healthy yet, I am glad to say, and have my wits quite about me, still, that happy state of things dght alter at any time. I might become >aralysed or feeble in my head, or want to make some foolish use of my money, as silly old women have done before now. So will you draw up a deed of this kind and bring it to me and I will sign it. And at the same time I will give you instructions about my will. Thanking you again for your good wishes, Your affec. Great-Aunt, Rosanna Wrayburn. "Hurray!" said Miss Murchison. * There was a will, then! And this Trust -- that's probably important, too." She read the letter again, skimmed through the clauses of the trust, taking particular notice that Norman Urquhart was named as sole Trustee, and finally made a mental note of some of the larger and more important items in the list of securities. Then she replaced the documents in their original order, relocked the box -- which yielded to treatment like an angel -- carried it out, replaced it, piled the other boxes above it, and was back at her machine, just as Mrs. Hodges 296 re-entered the office. "Just finished, Mrs. Hodges," she called out cheerfully. "I wondered if yer would be," said Mrs. Hodges, "I didn't hear the typewriter a-going." "I was making notes by hand," said Miss Murchison. She crumpled together the spoiled front page of the affidavit and threw it into the waste-paper basket together with the re-type which she had begun. From her desk-drawer she produced a correctly typed first page, provided beforehand for the purpose, added it to the bundle of script, put the top copy and the required sets of flimsies into an envelope, sealed it, addressed it to Messrs. Hanson & Hanson, put on her hat and coat and went out, bidding a pleasant farewell to Mrs. Hodges at the door. A short walk brought her to Messrs. Hansons' office, where she delivered the affidavit through the letter box. Then with a brisk step and humming to herself, she made for the 'bus-stop at the junction of Theobald's Road and Gray's Inn Road. !I think I deserve a little supper in «i 297 Soho," said Miss Murchison. She was humming again as she walked from Cambridge Circus into Frith Street. "What is this beastly tune?" she asked herself abruptly. A little consideration reminded her that it was "Sweeping through the gates, Sweeping through the gates . . ." "Bless me!" said Miss Murchison. "Going dotty, that's what I am." CHAPTER XV Lord Peter congratulated Miss Murchison and gave her a rather special lunch at Rules, where there is a particularly fine old Cognac for those that appreciate such things. Indeed, Miss Murchison was a little late in returning to Mr. Urquhart's office, and in her haste omitted to hand back the skeleton keys. But when the wine is good and the company agreeable one cannot always think of everything. Wimsey himself, by a great act of [self-control, had returned to his own flat |to think, instead of bolting away to jHolloway Gaol. Although it was a work fof charity and necessity to keep up the spirits of the prisoner (it was in this way that he excused his almost daily visits) he could not disguise from himself that it would be even more useful and charitable to get her innocence proved. So far, he had not made much real progress. The suicide theory had been looking very hopeful when Norman Urquhart had produced the draft of the will; but his belief in that draft had now been thoroughly undermined. There was still a faint hope of retrieving the packet of white powder from the "Nine Rings," but as the days passed remorselessly on, that hope diminished almost to vanishing-point. It irked him to be taking no action in the matter — he wanted to rush to the Gray's Inn Road, to cross-question, bully, bribe, ransack every person and place in and about the "Rings" but he knew that the police could do this better than he could. Why had Norman Urquhart tried to mislead him about the will? He could so easily have refused all information. There must be some mystery about it. But if Urquhart were not, in fact, the legatee, he was playing rather a dangerous game. If the old lady died, and the will was proved, the facts would probably be published — and she might die any day. How easy it would be, he thought, regretfully, to hasten Mrs. Wrayburn's death a trifle. She was ninety-three and very frail. An over-dose of something — a shake — a slight shock, even — it did not do to think after that fashion. He wondered idly who lived with the old woman and looked after her. . . . It was the 30th. of December, and he still had no plan. The stately volumes on his shelves, rank after rank of Saint, historian, poet, philosopher, mocked his impotence. All that wisdom and all that beauty, and they could not show him how to save the woman he imperiously wanted from a sordid death by hanging. And he had thought himself rather clever at that kind of thing. The enormous and complicated imbecility of things was all round him like a trap. He ground his teeth and raged helplessly, striding about the suave, wealthy, futile room. The great Venetian mirror over the fireplace showed him his own head and shoulders. He saw a fair, foolish face, with straw-coloured hair sleeked back; a monocle clinging incongruously under a ludicrously twitching brow; a chin shaved to perfection, hairless, epicene; a rather high collar, faultlessly starched, a tie elegantly knotted and matching in colour the handkerchief which peeped coyly from the breast-pocket of an expensive Savile-Row tailored suit. He snatched up a heavy bronze from the mantelpiece -- a beautiful thing, even as he snatched it, his fingers caressed the patina -- and the impulse seized him to smash the mirror and smash the face -- to break out into great animal howls and gestures. Silly! One could not do that. The inherited inhibitions of twenty civilised centuries tied one hand and foot in bonds of ridicule. What if he did smash the mirror? Nothing would happen. Bunter would come in, unmoved and unsurprised, would sweep up the debris in a dustpan, would prescribe a hot bath and massage. And next day a new mirror would be ordered, because people would come in and ask questions, and civilly regret the accidental damage to the old one. And Harriet Vane would still be hanged, just the same. Wimsey pulled himself together, called for his hat and coat, and went away in a taxi to call on Miss Climpson. "I have a job," he said to her, more abruptly than was his wont, "which I should like you to undertake yourself. I can't trust anybody else/' "How kind of you to put it like that," said Miss Climpson. "The trouble is, I can't in the least tell you how to set about it. It all depends on what you find when you get there. I want you to go to Windle in Westmorland and get hold of an imbecile and paralysed old lady called Mrs. Wrayburn, who lives at a house called Appleford. I don't know who looks after her, or how you are to get into the house. But you've got to do it, and you've got to find out where her will is kept, and, if possible, see it." Dear me!" said Miss Climpson. And what's worse," said Wimsey, you've only got about a week to do it <<] « « in. » « That's a very short time," said Miss Climpson. "You see," said Wimsey, "unless we can give some very good reason for delay, they're bound to take the Vane case almost first thing next sessions. If I could persuade the lawyers for the defence that there is the least chance of securing fresh evidence, they could apply for a postponement. But at present I have nothing that could be called evidence — only the vaguest possible hunch." "I see," said Miss Climpson. "Well, none of us can do more than our best, and it is very necessary to have Faith. That moves mountains, we are told." "Then for Heaven's sake lay in a good stock of it," said Wimsey, gloomily, *'because as far as I can see, this job is like shifting the Himalayas and the Alps, with a spot of frosty Caucasus and a touch of the Rockies thrown in." "You may count on me to do my poor best," replied Miss Climpson, "and I will ask the dear vicar to say a Mass of special intention for one engaged in a difficult Undertaking. When would you like me to start?" « 'At once," said Wimsey. "I think you had better go just as your ordinary self, and put up at the local hotel -- no -- a boarding-house, there will be more opportunities for gossip. I don't know much about Windle, except that there is a boot-factory there and rather a good view, but it's not a large place, and I should think everybody would know about Mrs. Wrayburn. She is very rich, and was notorious in her time. The person you'll have to cotton on to is the female -- there must be one of some sort -- who nurses and waits on Mrs. Wrayburn and is, generally speaking, about her path and about her bed and all that. When you find out her special weakness, drive a wedge into it like one o'clock. Oh! by the way -- it's quite possible the will isn't there at all, but in the hands of a solicitor-fellow called Norman Urquhart who hangs out in Bedford Row. If so, all you can do is to get the pump to work and find out ^anything -- anything at all -- to his [disadvantage. He's Mrs. Wrayburn's fgreat-nephew, and he goes to see her Isometimes." Miss Climpson made a note of these instructions. "And now I'll tootle off and leave you to it," said Wimsey. "Draw on the firm for any money you want. And if you need any special outfit, send me a wire." On leaving Miss Climpson, Lord Peter Wimsey again found himself a prey to Weltschmerz and self-pity. But it now took the form of a gentle, pervading melancholy. Convinced of his own futility, he determined to do what little good lay in his power before retiring to a monastery or to the frozen wastes of the Antarctic. He taxied purposefully round to Scotland Yard, and asked for Chief-Inspector Parker. Parker was in his office, reading a report which had just come in. He greeted Wimsey with an expression which seemed more embarrassed than delighted. "Have you come about that packet of powder?" "Not this time," said Wimsey, "I don't suppose you'll ever hear anything more of that. No. It's — rather a more —ver — delicate matter. It's about my sister." Parker started and pushed the report to one side. "About Lady Mary?" "Er -- yes. I understand she's been going about with you -- er -- dining -- and all that sort of thing, what?" "Lady Mary has honoured me -- on one or two occasions -- with her company," said Parker. "I did not think -- I did not know -- that is, I understood --" "Ah! but did you understand, that's the point?" said Wimsey, solemnly. "You see, Mary's a very nice-minded sort of girl, though I say it, and --" "I assure you," said Parker, "that there is no need to tell me that. Do you suppose that I should misinterpret her kindness? It is the custom now-a-days for women of the highest character to dine unchaperoned with their friends, and Lady Mary has --" "I'm not suggesting a chaperon," said Wimsey, "Mary wouldn't stick it for one thing, and I think it's all bosh, anyhow. Still, being' her brother, and all that -- it's Gerald's job really, of course, but Mary and he don't altogether hit it off, you know, and she wouldn't be likely to burble any secrets into his ear, especially as it would all be handed on to Helen — what was I going to say? Oh, yes — as Mary's brother, you know, I suppose it's my so to speak duty to push round and drop the helpful word here and there." Parker jabbed the blotting-paper thoughtfully. "Don't do that," said Wimsey, "it's bad for your pen. Take a pencil." "I suppose," said Parker, "I ought not to have presumed —" "What did you presume, old thing?" said Wimsey, his head cocked, sparrowfashion. "Nothing to which anybody could object," said Parker, hotly. "What are you thinking of, Wimsey? I quite see that it is unsuitable, from your point of view, that Lady Mary Wimsey should dine in public restaurants with a policeman, but if you imagine I have ever said a word to her that could not be said with the greatest propriety —" "— in the presence of her mother, you wrong the purest and sweetest woman that ever lived, and insult your friend," interrupted Peter, snatching the words from his mouth and rattling them to a glib conclusion. "What a perfect Victorian you are, Charles. I should like to keep you in a glass case. Of course you haven't said a word. What I want to know is, why?" Parker stared at him. "For the last five years or so," said Wimsey, "you have been looking like a demented sheep at my sister, and starting like a rabbit whenever her name is mentioned. What do you mean by it? It is not ornamental. It is not exhilarating. You unnerve the poor girl. You give me a poor idea of your guts, if you will pardon the expression. A man doesn't like to see a man go all wobbly about his sister — at least, not with such a prolonged wobble. It's unsightly. It's irritating. Why not slap the manly thorax and say, 'Peter, my dear old mangel-wurzel, I have decided to dig myself into the old family trench and be a brother to you'? What's stopping you? Is it Gerald? He's an ass, I know, but he's not a bad old stick, really. Is it Helen? She's a bit of a wart, but you needn't see much of her. Is it me? Because, if so, I'm thinking of becoming a hermit — there was a Peter the Hermit, wasn't there? — So I shouldn't be in your way. Cough up the difficulty, old thing, and we will have it removed in a plain van. Now, then!" "Do you — are you asking me —?" "I'm asking you your intentions, damn it!" said Wimsey, "and if that's not Victorian enough, I don't know what is. I quite understand your having given Mary time to recover from that unfortunate affair with Cathcart and the Goyles fellow, but, dash it all, my dear man, one can overdo the delicacy business. You can't expect a girl to stand on and off for ever, can you? Are you waiting for Leap Year, or what?" "Look here, Peter, don't be a damned fool. How can I ask your sister to marry me?" "How you do it is your affair. You might say: 'What about a spot of matrimony, old dear?' That's up-to-date, and plain and unmistakable.'Or you^could go down on one knee and say, 'Will you honour me with your hand and heart?' which is pretty and old-fashioned and has the merit of originality in these times. Or you could write, or wire, or telephone. But I leave that to your own individual fancy/' "You're not serious." "Oh, God! Shall I ever live down this disastrous reputation for torn-foolery? You're making Mary damned unhappy, Charles, and I wish you'd marry her and have done with it." "Making her unhappy?" said Parker, almost in a shout, "me -- her -- unhappy?" Wimsey tapped his forehead significantly. "Wood -- solid wood! But the last [blow seems to have penetrated. Yes, you her -- unhappy -- do you get it now?" "Peter -- if I really thought that --" "Now don't go off the deep end," said Imsey, "it's wasted on me. Keep it for lary. I've done my brotherly duty and there's an end of it. Calm yourself. Return to your reports --" 'Oh, lord, yes," said Parker. "Before ttt w» "We've found the packet/ "What?" "We've found the packet." "Actually found it?" "Yes. One of the barmen --" "Never mind the barmen. You're sure it's the right packet?" "i 1 99 said the girl, helpfully. "Mr. Bulteel's, down near the 'Bear,' is the best stationer's." "Thank you, thank you," said Miss Climpson, and darted out. The black veil was still flapping in the distance. Miss Climpson pursued breathlessly, keeping to the near side of the road. The veil dived into a chemist's shop. Miss Climpson crossed the road a little behind it and stared into a window full of baby-linen. The veil came out, fluttered undecidedly on the pavement, turned, passed Miss Climpson and went into a boot-shop. "If it's shoe-laces, it'll be quick," thought Miss Climpson, "but if it's tryingon it may be all morning." She walked slowly past the door. By good luck a customer was just coming out, and, peering past him, Miss Climpson just caught a glimpse of the black veil vanishing into the back premises. She pushed the door boldly open. There was a counter for sundries in the front of the shop, and the doorway through which the nurse had vanished was labelled « »> Ladies' Department.' While buying a pair of brown silk laces, Miss Climpson debated with herself. Should she follow and seize this opportunity? Trying on shoes is usually a lengthy business. The subject is marooned for long periods in a chair, while the assistant climbs ladders and collects piles of cardboard boxes. It is also comparatively easy to enter into conversation with a person who is trying on shoes. But there is a snag in it. To give colour to your presence in the Fitting department, you must yourself try on shoes. What happens? The assistant first disables you by snatching off your righthand shoe, and then disappears. And supposing, meanwhile, your quarry completes her purchase and walks out? Are you to follow, hopping madly on one foot? Are you to arouse suspicion by hurriedly replacing your own footgear and rushing out with laces flying and an unconvincing murmur about a forgotten engagement? Still worse, suppose you are in an amphibious condition, wearing^on'fc shoe of your own and one of the establishment's? What impression will you make by suddenly bolting with goods to which you are not entitled? Will not the pursuer very quickly become the pursued? Having weighed this problem in her mind, Miss Climpson paid for her shoelaces and retired. She had already bilked a tea-shop, and one misdemeanour in a morning was about as much as she could hope to get away with. The male detective, particularly when dressed as a workman, an errand-boy or a telegraph-messenger, is favourably placed for "shadowing." He can loaf without attracting attention. The female detective must not loaf. On the other hand, she can stare into shop-windows for ever. Miss Climpson selected a hat-shop. She examined all the hats in both windows attentively, coming back to gaze in a purposeful manner at an extremely elegant [model with an eye-veil and a pair of [excrescences like rabbits'-ears. Just at the imoment when any observer might have Ithought that she had at last made up her fmind to go in and ask the price, the nurse ime out of the boot-shop. Miss Climpson shook her head regretfully at the rabbits'ears, darted back to the other window, looked, hovered, hesitated — and tore herself away. The nurse was now about thirty yards ahead, moving well, with the air of a horse that sights his stable. She crossed the street again, looked into a window piled with coloured wools, thought better of it, passed on, and turned in at the door of the Oriental Cafe. Miss Climpson was in the position of one who, after prolonged pursuit, has clapped a tumbler over a moth. For the moment the creature is safe and the pursuer takes breath. The problem now is to extract the moth without damage. It is easy, of course, to follow a person into a cafe and sit down at her table, if there is room there. But she may not welcome you. She may feel it perverse in you to thrust yourself upon her when other tables are standing empty. It is better to offer some excuse, such as restoring a dropped handkerchief or drawing attention to an open hafldbag. If the person will not provide you with an excuse, the next best thing is to manufacture one. The stationer's shop was only a few doors off. Miss Climpson went in and purchased an indiarubber, three picture post-cards, a BB pencil and a calendar, and waited while they were made up into a parcel. Then she slowly made her way across the street and turned into the "Oriental." In the first room she found two women and a small boy occupying one recess, an aged gentleman drinking milk in another, and a couple of girls consuming coffee and cakes in a third. "Excuse me," said Miss Climpson to the two women, "but does this parcel belong to you? I picked it up just outside the door." The elder woman, who had evidently been shopping, hastily passed in review a quantity of miscellaneous packages, pinching each one by way of refreshing her memory as to the contents. "I don't think it's mine, but really I can't say for certain. Let me see. That's eggs and that's bacon and — what's this, Gertie? Is that the mouse-trap? No, wait a minute, that's cough-mixture, that is — and that's Aunt Edith's cork soles, and that's Nugget — no, bloater paste, this here's the Nugget — why, bless my soul, I believe I have been and gone and dropped the mouse-trap — but that don't look like it to me." "No, Mother," said the younger woman, "don't you remember, they were sending round the mouse-trap with the bath." "Of course, so they were. Well, that accounts for that. The mouse-trap and the two frying-pans, they was all to go with the bath, and that's all except the soap, which you've got, Gertie. No, thank you very much, all the same, but it isn't ours; somebody else must have dropped it." The old gentleman repudiated it firmly, but politely, and the two girls merely giggled at it. Miss Climpson passed on. Two young women with their attendant young men duly thanked her in the second room, but said the parcel was not theirs. Miss Climpson passed into. the third room. In the corner was a rather talkative party of people with an Airedale, and at the back, in the most obscure and retired of all the Oriental nooks and corners, sat the nurse, reading a book. The talkative party had nothing to say to the parcel, and Miss Climpson, with her heart beating fast, bore down upon the nurse. "Excuse me," she said, smiling graciously, "but I think this little parcel must be yours. I picked it up just in the doorway and Pve asked all the other people in the cafe." The nurse looked up. She was a grey haired, elderly woman, with those curious large blue eyes which disconcert the beholder by their intense gaze, and are usually an index of some emotional instability. She smiled at Miss Climpson and said pleasantly: "No, no, it isn't mine. So kind of you. But I have all my parcels here." She vaguely indicated the cushioned seat which ran round three sides of the alcove, and Miss Climpson, accepting the gesture as an invitation, promptly sat down. 'How very odd," said Miss Climpson, "i « I made sure someone must have dropped it coming in here. I wonder what I had better do with it." She pinched it gently. "I shouldn't think it was valuable, but one never knows. I suppose I ought to take it to the police-station." "You could hand it to the cashier," suggested the nurse, "in case the owner came back here to claim it." "Well now, so I could," cried Miss Climpson. "How clever of you to think of it. Of course, yes, that would be the best way. You must think me very foolish, but the idea never occurred to me. I'm not a very practical person, I'm afraid, but I do so admire the people who are. I should never do to take up your profession, should I? Any little emergency leaves me quite bewildered." The nurse smiled again. "It is largely a question of training," she said. "And of se//-training, too, of course. All these little weaknesses can be cured by placing the mind under a Higher Control -- don't you believe that?" Her eyes rested hypnotically- upon^Miss Climpson's. "I 'I suppose that is true." "It is such a mistake," pursued the nurse, closing her book and laying it down on the table, "to imagine that anything in the mental sphere is large or small. Our least thoughts and actions are equally directed by the higher centres of spiritual power, if we can bring ourselves to believe it." A waitress arrived to take Miss Climpson's order. tti "Oh, dear! I seem to have intruded myself upon your table ..." « 'Oh, don't get up," said the nurse. 'Are you sure? Really? because I don't want to interrupt you --" "Not at all. I live a very solitary life, and I am always glad to find a friend to talk to." »» "How nice of you. I'll have scones and butter, please, and a pot of tea. This is such a nice little cafe, don't you think? -- so quiet and peaceful. If only those people wouldn't make such a noise with that dog of theirs. I don't like those great big animals, and I think they're quite dangerous, don't you?' The reply was lost on Miss Climpson for she had suddenly seen the title of the book on the table, and the Devil, or a Ministering Angel (she was not quite sure which) was, so to speak, handing her a fullblown temptation on a silver salver. The book was published by the Spiritualist Press and was called "Can the Dead Speak?" In a single moment of illumination, Miss Climpson saw her plan complete and perfect in every detail. It involved a course of deception from which her conscience shrank appalled, but it was certain. She wrestled with the demon. Even in a righteous cause, could anything so wicked be justified? She breathed what she thought was a prayer for guidance, but the only answer was a small whisper in her ear, "Oh, jolly good work, Miss Climpson!" and the voice was the voice of Peter Wimsey. "Pardon me," said Miss Climpson, "but I see you are a student of spiritualism. How interesting that is!" If there was one subject in the world about which Miss Climpson might claim to know something, it was Spiritualism. It is a flower which flourishes bravely in a boarding-house atmosphere. Time and again, Miss Climpson had listened while the apparatus of planes and controls, correspondences and veridical communications, astral bodies, auras and ectoplastic materialisations was displayed before her protesting intelligence. That to the Church it was a forbidden subject she knew well enough, but she had been paid companion to so many old ladies and had been forced so many times to bow down in the House of Rimmon. And then there had been the quaint little man from the Psychical Research Society. He had stayed a fortnight in the same private hotel with her at Bournemouth. He was skilled in the investigation of haunted houses and the detection of poltergeists. He had rather liked Miss Climpson, and she had passed several interesting evenings hearing about the tricks of mediums. Under his guidance she had learnt to turn tables and produce explosive cracking noises; she knew how to examine a pair of sealed slates for the marks of the wedges which let the chalk go in on a long black wire to write spiritpassages. She had seen the ingenious rubber gloves which leave the impression of spirit hands in a bucket of paraffinwax, and which, when deflated, can be drawn delicately from the hardened wax through a hole narrower than a child's wrist. She even knew theoretically, though she had never tried it, how to hold her hands to be tied behind her back so as to force that first deceptive knot which makes all subsequent knots useless, and how to flit about the room banging tambourines in the twilight in spite of having been tied up in a black cabinet with both fists filled with flour. Miss Climpson had wondered greatly at the folly and wickedness of mankind. The nurse went on talking, and Miss Climpson answered mechanically. "She's only a beginner," said Miss Climpson to herself. "She's reading a text-book. . . . And she is quite uncritical. . . . Surely she knows that that woman was exposed long ago. . . . People lilce her shouldn't be allowed out alone — they're living incitements to fraud. ... I don't know this Mrs. Craig she is talking about, but I should say she was as twisty as a corkscrew. ... I must avoid Mrs. Craig, she probably knows too much ... if the poor deluded creature will swallow that, she'll swallow anything." "It does seem most wonderful, doesn't it?" said Miss Climpson, aloud. "But isn't it a wee bit dangerous? I've been told I'm sensitive myself, but I have never dared to try. Is it wise to open one's mind to these supernatural influences?" "It's not dangerous if you know the right way," said the nurse. "One must learn to build up a shell of pure thoughts about the soul, so that no evil influences can enter it. I have had the most y marvellous talks with the dear ones who have passed over. ..." Miss Climpson refilled the tea-pot and sent the waitress for a plate of sugary cakes. ". . . unfortunately I am not mediumistic myself — not yet, that is. I can't get anything when I'm alone. Mrs. Craig says /that it will come by practice and concentration. Last night I was trying with the Ouija board, but it would only write spirals." "Your conscious mind is too active, I expect," said Miss Climpson. "Yes, I daresay that is it. Mrs. Craig say that I am wonderfully sympathetic. We get the most wonderful results when we sit together. Unfortunately she is abroad just now." Miss Climpson's heart gave a great leap, so that she nearly spilled her tea. "You yourself are a medium, then?" went on the nurse. "I have been told so," said Miss Climpson, guardedly. "I wonder," said the nurse, "whether if we sat together --" She looked hungrily at Miss Climpson. 'I don't really like --" 'Oh, do! You are such a sympathetic person. I'm sure we should get good results. And the spirits are so pathetically anxious to communicate. Of course, I wouldn't like to try unless I was sure of the person. There are so many fraudulent mediums about" -- ("So you do know robably, then. What's that silver cup? los. Booth and three other names — ^embroke College Fours 1883. Not an [pensive college. Wonder whether Papa )bjected to Harry on account of the Jycle-manufacturing connection? That book over there looks like a school prize. It is. Maidstone Ladies' College -- for distinction in English Literature. Just so. Is she coming back? No, false alarm. Young man in khaki, 'Your loving nephew, G. Booth' -- ah! Tom's son, I take it. Did he survive, I wonder? Yes -- she is coming, this time." When the door opened, Miss Climpson was sitting by the fire, deeply engaged in Raymond. "So sorry to keep you waiting," said Miss Booth, "but the poor old dear is rather restless this evening. She'll do now for a couple of hours, but I shall have to go up again later. Shall we begin at once? I'm so eager to try." Miss Climpson readily agreed. "We usually use this table," said Miss Booth, bringing forward a small, round table of bamboo, with a shelf between its legs. Miss Climpson thought she had never seen a piece of furniture more excellently adapted for the faking of phenomena, and heartily approved of Mrs. Craig's choice. . * 'Do we sit in the light?" she enquired. < 'Who was that talking just now?" 'Bad spirit. Gone now." 'Is Harry still there?' i» "Gone." "Does anybody else want to speak?; "Helen." » "Helen who?" "Don't you remember? Maidstone.' "Maidstone? Oh, do you mean Ellen Pate?" "Yes, Pate." » "Fancy that! Good-evening, Ellen. How nice to hear from you. "Remember row." «1 "] «<1 'Do you mean the big row in the dormitory? " 'Kate bad girl." "] ttt 'No, I don't remember Kate, except Kate Hurley. You don't mean her, do you?" »> 'Naughty Kate. Lights out." 'Oh, I know what she's trying to say. The cakes after lights were out.1 » "That's right." "You still spell badly, Ellen/ "Miss -- Miss --" "Mississippi? Haven't you learnt it yet?" "Funny." "Are there many of our class where you are?" "Alice and Mabel. Send love." "How sweet of them. Give them my love too." "Yes. All love. Flowers. Sunshine." "What do you --" i» "P," said the table, impatiently. "Is that Pongo again?! »» "Yes. Tired." "Do you want us to stop?' "Yes. Another time." "Very well, goodnight." "Goodnight." The medium leaned back in her chair with an air of exhaustion which was perfectly justified. It is very tiring to rap out letters of the alphabet, and she was afraid the soap-box was slipping. Miss Booth turned on the light. «i « a "That was wonderful!" said Miss Booth. 'Did you get the answers you wanted?" 'Yes, indeed. Didn't you hear them?" 'I didn't follow it all," said Miss Climpson. "It is a little difficult, counting, till you're used to it. You must be dreadfully tired. We'll stop now and make some tea. Next time perhaps we could use the Ouija. It doesn't take nearly so long to get the answers with that." Miss Climpson considered this. Certainly it would be less wearisome, but she was not sure of being able to manipulate it. «i Miss Booth put the kettle on the fire and glanced at the clock. . * 'Dear me! it's nearly eleven. How the time has flown! I must run up and see to my old dear. Would you like to read through the questions and answers? I don't suppose I shall be many minutes." Satisfactory, so far, thought Miss Climpson. Confidence was well established. In a few days' time, she would be able to work her plan. But she had nearly tripped up over George. And it was stupid to have said * Helen.' Nellie would have done for either — there was a Nellie in every school forty-five years ago. But after all, it didn't much matter what you said — the other person was sure to help you out of it. How desperately her legs and arms were aching. Wearily she wondered if she had missed the last bus. "I'm afraid you have," said Miss Booth when the question was put to her on her return. "But we'll ring up a taxi. At my expense, of course, dear. I insist, as you were so good in coming all this way, entirely to please me. Don't you think the communications are too marvellous? Harry would never come before — poor Harry! I'm afraid I was very unkind to him. He married, but you see he has never forgotten me. He lived at Coventry and we used to have a joke about it -- that's what he meant by saying that. I wonder which Alice and Mabel that was. There was an Alice Gibbons and an Alice Roach -- both such nice girls; I think Mabel must be Mabel Herridge. She married and went out to India years and years ago. I can't remember her married name and I've never heard from her since, but she must have passed to the other side. Pongo is a new control. We must ask him who he is. Mrs. Craig's control is Fedora -- she was a slave-girl at the court of Poppaea." "Really!" said Miss Climpson. "She told us her story one night. So romantic. She was thrown to the lions because she was a Christian and refused to have anything to do with Nero." "How very interesting." "Yes, isn't it? But she doesn't speak very good English, and it's sometimes rather hard to understand her. And she sometimes lets the tiresome ones in. Pongo was very quick at getting rid of George Washington. You will come again, Won't you? Tomorrow night?1 i» >» "Certainly, if you like.' "Yes, please do. And next time you must ask for a message for yourself." "I will indeed," said Miss Climpson. "It has all been such a revelation -- quite wonderful. I never dreamed that I had such a gift." And that was true, also. CHAPTER XVIII It was, of course, useless for Miss Climpson to try to conceal from the boarding-house ladies where she had been and what she had been doing. Her return at midnight in a taxi had already aroused the liveliest curiosity, and she told the truth to avoid being accused of worse dissipations. "My dear Miss Climpson," said Mrs. Pegler, "you will not, I trust, think me interfering, but I must caution you against having anything to do with Mrs. Craig or her friends. I have no doubt Miss Booth is an excellent woman, but I do not like the company she keeps. Nor do I approvfe of spiritualism. It is a prying into matters which we are not intended to know about, and may lead to very undesirable results. If you were a married woman, I could explain myself more clearly, but you may take it from me that these indulgences may have serious effects upon the character in more ways than one." "Oh, Mrs. Pegler," said Miss Etheredge, "I don't think you should say that. One of the most beautiful characters I know — a woman whom it is a privilege to call one's friend — is a spiritualist, and she is a real saint in her life and influence." "Very likely, Miss Etheredge," replied Mrs. Pegler, drawing her stout figure to its most impressive uprightness, "but that is not the point. I do not say that a spiritualist may not live a good life, but I do say that the majority of them are most unsatisfactory people, and far from truthful." "I have happened to meet with a number of so-called mediums in the course of my life," agreed Miss Tweall, acidly, "and all of them, without any exception, were people I would not have trusted any further than I could see them — if as far." «' That is very true of a great many of them," said Miss Climpson, "and I am sure nobody could have better opportunities of judging than myself. But I think and hope that some of them are at least sincere if mistaken in their claims. What do you think, Mrs. Liffey?" she added, turning to the proprietress of the establishment. » "We-11," said Mrs. Liffey -- obliged, in her official capacity, to agree as far as possible with all parties. "I must say, from what I have read, and that is not a great deal, for I have little time for reading -- still, I think there is a certain amount of evidence to show that, in certain cases and under strictly safeguarded conditions, there is possibly some foundation of truth beneath the spiritualists' claims. Not that I should care to have anything to do with it personally; as Mrs. Pegler says, I do not as a rule care very much for the sort of people who go in for it, though doubtless there are many exceptions. I think perhaps that the subject should be left to properly qualified investigators.1 (f There I agree with you/' said Mrs. Pegler. "No words can express the disgust I feel at the intrusion of women like this Mrs. Craig into realms that should be sacred to us all. Imagine, Miss Climpson, that that woman -- whom I do not know and have no intention of knowing -- actually had the impertinence once to write to me and say that she had received a message at one of her seances, as she calls them, purporting to come from my dear husband. I cannot tell you what I felt. To have the General's name actually brought up, in public, in connection with such wicked nonsense! And of course it was the purest invention, for the General was the last man to have anything to do with goings-on. 'Pernicious poppycock,' he used to call it in his bluff military way. And when it came to telling me, his widow, that he had come to Mrs. Craig's house and played the accordion and asked for special prayers to deliver him from a place of punishment, I could only look on it as a calculated insult. The General was a regular Church-goer and entirely opposed to prayers for the dead or anything popish; and as to being in any undesirable place, he was the best of men, even if he was a little abrupt at times. As for accordions, I hope, wherever he is, he has something better to do with his time." "A most shameful business," said Miss Tweall. "Who is this Mrs. Craig?" asked Miss Climpson. "Nobody knows," said Mrs. Pegler, ominously. "She is said to be a doctor's widow," said Mrs. Liffey. "It's my opinion," said Miss Tweall, "that she is no better than she should be." "A woman of her age," said Mrs. Pegler, "with henna'd hair and earrings a foot long —" "And going about in those extraordinary clothes," said Miss Tweall. "And having such very odd people to stay with her," said Mrs. Pegler. "You remember that black man, Mrs. Liffey, who wore a green turban and used to» say his prayers in the front garden till the police interfered." "What I should like to know/' said Miss Tweall, "is, where she gets her money from." "If you ask me, my dear, the woman's on the make. Heaven knows what she persuades people to do in these spiritualistic meetings.'' "But what brought her to Windle?" asked Miss Climpson. "I should have thought London, or some big town, would have been a better place for her if she is the kind of person you describe." "I shouldn't be surprised if she was in hiding," said Miss Tweall, darkly. "There is such a thing as making a place too hot to hold you." "Without altogether subscribing to your wholesale condemnation," said Miss Climpson, "I must agree that psychical research can be very dangerous indeed in the wrong hands, and from what Miss" Booth tells me, I do doubt very much whether Mrs. Craig is a suitable guide for the inexperienced. Indeed, I quite felt it my duty to put Miss Booth on her guard, and that is what I am endeavouring to do. But, as you know, one has to do that kind of thing very tactfully — otherwise one may merely, so to speak, put the person's back up. The first step is to gain her confidence, and then, little by little, one may be able to induce a more wholesome frame of mind." "That's so true," said Miss Etheredge, eagerly, her pale blue eyes lighting with something that was almost animation. "I very nearly fell under the influence of a dreadful, fraudulent person myself, till my dear friend showed me a better way." "Maybe," said Mrs. Pegler, "but in my opinion the whole thing is best left alone." Undeterred by this excellent advice, Miss Climpson kept her appointment. After a spirited exhibition of tablerocking, Pongo consented to communicate by means of the Ouija board, though at first he was rather awkward with it. He attributed this, however, to the fact that he had never learned to write while on earth. Asked who he was, he explained that he was an Italian acrobat of >he Renaissance period, and that his full name was Pongocelli. He had lived a sadly irregular life, but had redeemed himself by heroically refusing to abandon a sick child during the time of the Great Plague in Florence. He had caught the plague and died of it, and was now working out the period of probation for his sins by serving as guide and interpreter to other spirits. It was a touching story, and Miss Climpson was rather proud of it. George Washington was rather intrusive, and the seance also suffered from a number of mysterious interruptions from what Pongo described as a "jealous influence.'' Nevertheless, * 'Harry'' reappeared and delivered some consolatory messages, and there were further communications from Mabel Herridge, who gave a vivid description of her life in India. On the whole, and taking the difficulties into account, a successful evening. On Sunday there was no seance, owing to the revolt of the medium's conscience. Miss Climpson felt that she could not, really could not, bring herself to do it. She went to church instead, and listened to the Christmas message with a distracted mind. On Monday, however, the two enquirers again took their seats about the bamboo table, and the following is the report of the seance, as noted down by Miss Booth. 7.30 p.m. On this occasion proceedings were begun at once with the Ouija board; after a few minutes, a loud succession of raps announced the presence of a control. Question: Good-evening. Who is that? Answer: Pongo here. Good-evening! Heaven bless you. Q. We are very glad to have you with us, Pongo. A. Good -- very good. Here we are again! Q. Is that you, Harry? A. Yes, only to give my love. Such a crowd. Q. The more the better. We are glad to meet all our friends. What can we do for you? A, Attend. Obey the spirits. Q. We will do all we can, if you will tell us what to do. A. Boil your heads! Q. Go away, George, we don't want you. A. Get off the line, silly. Q. Pongo, can't you send him away? (Here the pencil drew the sketch of an ugly face.) Q. Is that your portrait? A. That's me. G. W. Ha, ha! (The pencil zig-zagged violently and drove the board right over the edge of the table. When it was replaced it started to write in the hand we associate with Pongo.) A. I have sent him away. Very noisy tonight. F. jealous and sends him to disturb us. Never mind. Pongo more powerful. Q. Who do you say is jealous? A. Never mind. Bad person. Maladetta. Q. Is Harry still there? A. No. Other business. There is a spirit shere who wishes your help. Q. Who is it? A. Very hard. Wait. (The pencil made a series of wide loops.) g. What letter is that? A. Silly! don't be impatient. There is difficulty. I will try again. (The pencil scribbled for a few minutes and then wrote a large C.) Q. We have got the Letter C. Is that right? A. CCC Q. We have got C. A. C-R-E (Here there was another violent interruption.) A. (in Pongo's writing) She is trying, but there is much opposition. Think helpful thoughts. Q. Would you like us to sing a hymn? A. (Pongo again, very angry) Stupid! Be quiet! (Here the writing changed again) MO Q. Is that part of the same word? A. RNA. Q. Do you mean Cremorna? A. (in the new writing) Cremorna, Cremorna. Through! Glad, glad, glad! At this point, Miss Booth turned to Miss Climpson and said in a puzzled voice: "This is very strange. Cremorna was Mrs. Wrayburn's stage name. I do hope — surely she can't have passed away suddenly. She was perfectly comfortable when I left her. Had I better go and see?" "Perhaps it's another Cremorna?" suggested Miss Climpson. "But it's such an unusual name." "Why not ask who it is?" Q. Cremorna — what is your second name? A. (The pencil writing very fast) Rosegarden — easier now. Q. I don't understand you. A. Rose — Rose — Rose — Silly! Q. Oh! — (My dear, she's mixing up the two names) — Do you mean Cremorna Garden? A. Yes. Q. Rosanna Wrayburn? A. Yes. Q. Have you passed over? A. Not yet. In exile. Q. Are you still in the body? A. Neither in the body nor out of the body. Waiting. (Pongo interposing) When what you call the mind is departed, the spirit waits in exile for the Great Change. Why can't you understand? Make haste. Great difficulties. Q. We are so sorry. Are you in trouble about something? A. Great trouble. Q. I hope it isn't anything in Dr. Brown's treatment, or mine — A. (Pongo) Do not be so foolish. (Cremorna) My will. Q. Do you want to alter your will? A. No. Miss Climpson. That is fortunate, because I don't think it would be legal. What do you want us to do about it, dear Mrs. Wrayburn? A. Send it to Norman. Q, To Mr. Norman Urquhart? A. Yes. He knows. Q. He knows what is to be done with it? A. He wants it. Q. Very well. Can you tell us where to find it? A. I have forgotten. Search. * Q. Is it in the house? A. I tell you I have forgotten. Deep waters. No safety. Failing, failing . . . (Here the writing became very faint and irregular.) Q. Try to remember. A. In the B — B — B — (a confusion and the pencil staggering wildly) — No good. (Suddenly, in a different hand and very vigorously) Get off the line, get off the line, get off the line. Q. Who is that? A. (Pongo) She has gone. The bad influence back. Ha, ha! Get off! Finished now. (The pencil ran right out of the medium's control, and on being replaced on the table, refused to answer any further questions.) "How dreadfully vexatious!'* exclaimed Miss Booth. "I suppose you have no idea where the will is?" "Not the least. 'In the B —' she said. Now, what could that be?" "In the Bank, perhaps," suggested Miss Climpson. "It might be. If so, of course, Mr. Urquhart would be the only person who could get it out." "Then why hasn't he? She said he wanted it." "Of course. Then it must be somewhere in the house. What could B stand for?" «1